


La Vie en Rose

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, They're stupidly in love and I hate them, eventual long-distance relationship, insta-love, one-line-brief mention of past homophobia/verbal abuse, public harassment (someone sticking their hand in Dean's back pocket)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 07:12:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 35,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2642825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean works as a photographer for a prestigious NY travel magazine. He's not very excited when he's sent to Paris to work on an article about the world's famous cities -- the trip would probably be unbearable if it weren't for Cas, an American guy working at a café who moved to Paris several years ago. It's Cas who helps Dean with his project, and opens his eyes to love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Let me say my thank-yous real quick. Thank you to mostly10 for her breathtakingly beautiful art, I still can't believe how lucky I got and I still can't stop staring at the gorgeous piece she made. [GO CHECK IT OUT.](http://mostly10.com/post/103054637235/la-vie-en-rose-a-deancas-mini-bang-2014)
> 
> Thank you to Eve for the beta, AND for the support/encouragement.
> 
> Biggest thank you of them all to Max, who listened to me whine and complain and cry as I wrote the original 17k of this for the deadline -- and then held me when I sobbed as this grew into a 35k monster during editing. To be honest, I don't know where I'd be without you. So, thank you. For inspiring me and talking to me and for being there. ♥ Thank you for helping with the French stuff, too! Basically, you're a star.
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy the fic. There are a few French sentences here and there. They're all marked with a *, you can look up their translations in the notes at the end of each chapter.  
> I have had a native speaker comment and correct some of the sentences and I did fix them accordingly to what they suggested, so please don't post any more comments telling me what I should change. Thanks for understanding.
> 
> (Sidenote: Dean's ex-boyfriend's name is Michael, but he's an OC, not SPN!Michael.)

“…turbulences. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts. Thank you.”

Dean curses quietly. With a panicky breath escaping his lungs, he cautiously takes a little peek out of the window. What he sees is the sky turning into suspiciously dark colors, deep velvet blue and grey trapping the airplane in a tight embrace. He curses again, quickly looking away before the darkness can transform into a made up monster in his head.

“Is this your first time flying?” the lady sitting next to him who had been reading ever since they took off of JFK four hours ago asks him kindly. She’s probably bored; chances of her being genuinely curious are low.

“My first time flying to _Europe_ ,” Dean corrects her. He had mastered one or two hour long flights, but this seven hour flight (seven hours and fourteen minutes, to be exact) has brought back his anxiety. As they were taking off, Dean found himself clutching the arm rests till his knuckles turned white, and ever since then it has been a sweaty horror ride.

“Oh,” the lady next to him nods. “Don’t worry, by the fifth hour or so, you won’t even realize you’re on a plane. Is Paris your final destination?”

Dean squints at her when she says he won’t even realize that – they _are_ near their fifth hour and Dean is honestly surprised he’s not shaking the stewardess and yelling at her to get him on solid ground right now. He gulps. “Yeah,” he says, “It’s a business trip. I’m a photographer, working for a magazine, and, y’know, covering some article about Paris.”

She nods again with a smile. She closes the book, laying it on her lap, her thumb trapped on the page she stopped on. Mid-paragraph, maybe. Just because the guy next to her couldn’t hold back a vulgarism. “You must hate your boss, though, for sending you on a flight like this.”

Dean shrugs. “Well, I mean, I’m sure he didn’t mean it; we’re friends actually. But I hate him anyway and will probably kill him if I survive the flight back to the States.”

It’s true enough. Balthazar probably didn’t even think about the flight when he gave him this job. They _are_ friends, that’s true, too. Dean still remembers the conversation that led to this unfortunate trip (remembers Balthazar’s friendly, concerned face, even), but he can’t believe he actually let him talk him into it. Ridiculous.

It was all very official. They actually sat in Balthazar’s office after Dean submitted his previous work (a surprisingly fun article on national parks; fun because Dean truly didn’t think he would enjoy hiking and visiting them, but he did, especially the ones he visited with his brother Sam), which only happened on rare occasions.

Balthazar clasped his hands together, his brow furrowed. “I’ve been thinking about how to cheer you up and take your mind off things,” he said, and it came out of nowhere, surprising Dean on the spot; despite the surprise, he didn’t miss the hidden undertone: _Break ups suck and I’m useless at comforting, let me help you anyway._

“What does that even mean?”

“Darling, now, I know you don’t want to talk about it, but ever since you broke up with Michael –”

Dean’s features hardened at that, his jaw clenched – here it comes. He didn’t like to be reminded, didn’t even like talking about Michael. Didn’t like thinking about him. In Dean’s eyes, Michael was history; one that lingers, one with a distant taste of bitterness, but history nonetheless. In his friends’ eyes, though, Michael was something that was supposed to still haunt him (which he did, partly), even though he would never admit to that.

“We broke up weeks and weeks ago, Balthazar. Leave it.”

“Yes, but you were practically engaged, honey.”

Dean cringed. “Michael was a dick to me. And anyway, what does he have to do with my job?”

Balthazar sighed and leaned back in his obnoxiously expensive leather covered chair. “You seem really tense.” Balthazar took the national parks pictures Dean had presented not even ten minutes ago, and skimmed through them mindlessly, huffing out a breath. “Your photographs are not as good as they used to be.”

“What are you talking about?” Dean spat out, offended. He took the pictures from Balthazar’s hands and frowned at them. Then he proceeded to throw them back on the table. “Balthazar, I actually enjoyed working on these. C’mon. Cut me some slack.”

Balthazar sighed, looking away. “It doesn’t show, I’m sorry.” 

He looked up again, Dean catching his glance, and they stared at each other for a second, Dean’s chest heaving in hurt. He was sure Balthazar was wrong; he liked what he had done with the pictures, liked how he was able to get relationships and real life out of his head while _working_. This sounded like betrayal to him.

“Anyway,” Balthazar continued after a second, “I’m sure you just need fresh air, and I can give you that as your boss. Basically, sweetheart, I’m sending you to Paris. We’re doing a special edition in June about world’s famous cities, and I want you to cover part of that.”

Dean stared for a second, his first intention to snort held back successfully. Now; just wide-eyed, plain staring. He wasn’t sure if this was a joke or not, or whether he should remind Balthazar that sending Dean to the city of love to “recover” from a bad break up was straight up bullshit. So he just sat there, unmoving, for almost a minute, a disgusted look on his face, trying to ignore Balthazar’s satisfied and excited expression.

“Really,” he murmured after all sarcastically, “You want to send me to _Paris_ , out of all cities, to cheer me up from a break up. Really.”

“I hear French men are rather handsome and that they like their fun.”

“You could just send me to a strip club then.”

“Wouldn’t profit from it,” Balthazar argues, “And seriously, I need someone to cover this. I’m out of options and I trust you. And, surprisingly, I was serious when I said I thought you needed to get out of here. You may not realize it, but it’s poisonous. You’re like an old bitter lady already and you’re not even thirty-five.”

Dean gritted his teeth. “I’m not gonna run around Paris taking pictures of every romantic place.”

For a second, Balthazar looked like he would straight up fire Dean if he continued to refuse, but then he just sighed again. “I don’t care about romantic. I care about interesting. Take pictures of whatever the hell you want. Film locations. Random statues. I don’t give a damn. Just make it look interesting. And, if possible, have fun while at it.”

Dean wanted to argue some more; he really, truly did, but he knew he lost this battle. Balthazar was too persistent and, after all, he was Dean’s boss. And if friendship with your boss teaches you anything, it’s when it’s time to hunch your back and listen. You can only tell them no for so long before they write you a check and wave you goodbye, even when they’re your friend. 

It was Dean’s turn to sigh, and he did. He didn’t want to go to Paris; didn’t want to spend his time looking for interesting things to capture on film, not _there_ ; he didn’t want any of it. 

Bitterly indeed, he said, “Fuck.” _I hate you._ And then, “So when am I leaving?”

And so he’s here; on a plane, not even three weeks later, suffering through a seven hour flight, his camera with him, his gut squeezed in anxious anticipation, ready for a two week so-called adventure. No, not ready, not really. More like at peace with the fact that he’s gonna have to get through this somehow.

The lady, who never even introduced herself, stops paying attention to him. After giggling through her nose and nodding, her golden heavy-looking earrings move as she bows his head to continue reading. It leaves Dean empty and suddenly craving a longer conversation, or for something to keep him occupied during the flight.

He fumbles with his old iPod, untangles the headphones and, closing his eyes, he tries to focus on Metallica in his ears. 

 

The landing in Paris and then getting off the plane is one of the best moments of Dean’s life; discovering the beauty of photography and spending the entire day in bed with someone he loved included. And that’s saying something.

After picking up his suitcase, he fishes out a paper with information on his hotel and how to get there. He could take a bus, or a train, or a taxi. His budget is limited and from what he read on the issue, a taxi would be unreasonably expensive. The train is his cheapest option, and even though he’ll have to transfer to the Metro and, possibly, get lost, he goes for it.

It’s an ordeal to get the right train ticket and to _not get lost_ although still at the airport, but after roughly fifteen minutes, he hops on the right train that will get him to Gare du Nord, where he’ll change to the Metro. Gare du Nord proves to be about as confusing as the airport; spacious and crowded, with people swimming both sides, pushing against him, chaotic. 

He manages to push his luggage through the entrance, get on the train in the right direction and then get off on the right stop. When he steps out of the carriage, a strong smell washes over him as he inhales. He frowns. He recognizes urine, sweat, and something he cannot place, but for the first second or two, it makes him dizzy. 

Thankfully, Dean manages to climb all the steps (urine and said steps quickly becoming the strongest impressions to take from this whole Metro experience) and get out. 

He gets to his room around eight in the evening, and he doesn’t even consider going out and taking a look at the city that everyone loves so much. He simply crawls into his bed and after calling Sam and texting Balthazar that he’s okay, he falls asleep within minutes, without changing his clothes or taking a shower.

Dean realizes how disgusting that was when he wakes up around five in the morning, feeling dirty and awful, sporting a headache.

That goes away while he takes a shower in the ridiculously tiny bathroom. He hits his elbow on the shower door handle every time he tries to move.

In just his underwear, he falls on top of his bed and closes his eyes, hoping he will be able to fall asleep again.

He only gets a nap, though, and around seven, he’s just about ready to go out.

He knows close to nothing about French people, but his guess is that the streets will be empty at this hour, and for at least two more, too. Breakfast at the hotel takes him some time, but soon enough, he’s out of the hotel. He’s got his camera hanging around his neck, a map of the Paris Metro in his pocket, and a few other necessities in his handbag.

His first stop is Saint Michel. It’s crowded with tourists starting noon or so, but from the pictures he found online, it’s one of the prettier parts of Paris, even though it’s not exactly something new and refreshing that people – and potential magazines buyers/readers -- never heard about.

Dean walks around for a bit, takes a few pictures – the fountain, the shops, the cafés – but he’s mostly still mentally exhausted from the flight and having to work annoys him. He enjoys the quiet, though; not the quiet around him, but the quiet in him. His mind has been silent ever since waking up, and it’s comfortable to just coexist with a city and become a part of it without really trying.

Notre Dame is not very far, so he walks there, takes some more pictures like a good employee (hates himself for not bringing his tripod with him today like an unhappy artist), and on his way back, he stops at Shakespeare & Company. They only opened half an hour or so ago, but when Dean enters the shop (of course, only after taking a picture of it first), he’s not even surprised to find that at least a dozen people are in there already, looking at books and for books.

He ends up buying a tote bag instead of a book, and the cashier tells him (in a British accent) that he should check out Macbeth in park at six pm, just behind the corner.

Dean gets strangely excited about that – not because he loves Shakespeare and his dick jokes all that much, but it’s the first glimpse of random and remotely interesting, and so he holds on to it. He thanks the guy and as he’s leaving the bookstore, he makes a mental note to come back at six for the Shakespeare thing.

The rest of his day goes on in a sort of haze – he visits two cemeteries, the Montparnasse one and the Pierre Lachaise one, and it gets him in a weird, dull mood. He walks through the tombstones, recognizing some names proving to be more disturbing than not recognizing them.

He hopes to shake the heavy feeling of all the dead underneath his feet, famous or not, good or not, happy or not, off when he exists the Pierre Lachaise cemetery, but it lingers.

Dean decides to make one more stop before going back to the Macbeth park. Half an hour later finds him at a film location: the café where Amélie was filmed back in 2001. He hopes that even though the movie is not his favorite, it might pick him up anyway.

He’s still in a somewhat grumpy mood, and the fact that this place is crowded as hell (which he should have expected) doesn’t help. For a second, he thinks every table is taken and considers leaving, but then he notices one empty table in the back room, so he makes his way over there and sits down, looking around, trying to absorb that even though the walls are painted in as bright colors as in the movie, they still manage to look hollow.

He’s just thinking about how the café would have benefitted if there wasn’t a giant poster of Audrey Tatou’s face when a young looking waiter – could be seventeen or less -- stops by his table with a giant smile on his face.

“Bonjour!” he acclaims, and before Dean can say anything, he places a menu on his table and disappears again to take care of other customers.

Dean picks up the menu just to find out that it’s in French, which Dean does not speak, not even a word; he tried to learn the phrase _Je ne parle pas francais_ but his tongue twisted and tripped and Dean gave up. 

He sighs and looks back up, trying to find the waiter in the crowd. That task proves to be impossible, though.

Another waiter notices him, though, nods, and starts to make his way towards Dean. 

This one is not so young – well into his twenties, and rather good looking. Dean is surprised to realize he hasn’t been able to take his eyes off of the man; after all, it’s just your regular guy – not too tall and not too short, his movements somewhat elegant and easy, with a greasy stain on his apron. But for some reason, Dean likes how it all plays together – the dark hair, the smile on his face, the wrinkles around his blue eyes. Without even thinking about it, he follows him with his gaze all the way to his table.

Dean is honestly taken aback by his own interest in him.

“Bonjour,” the man greets Dean with a smile and then says something else in French that Dean doesn’t understand.

“Uh, bonjour,” he tries, but he knows his accent gives him away right at the very first second. “Could you give me an English menu, please?”

The man smiles again. Dean zooms in on the name tag pinned onto his chest that reads ‘Cas’. “Of course. Sorry, I saw Nico gave you the menu. He’s our boss’ cousin and only helps here and there when there’s too many people. Which is all the time.”

“You’re American, aren’t you?” Dean comments with a grin, suddenly happy about the fact. 

The waiter, Cas, if the name tag is true, doesn’t seem to be too happy about it, though. He probably runs into Americans at least a hundred times a day, so it’s probably boring to him. Dean appreciates it, though. After hearing French – and other foreign languages – all day, it almost feels like he has run into family.

“I am,” he answers. “But I’ve been living here for almost eight years now, so.”

“Still counts,” Dean decides and they exchange smiles.

“Okay, I’ll be right back with the menu,” the waiter says in the end and turns around on his heels, disappearing somewhere behind the counter. 

Left alone again, Dean realizes he’s been tense the whole time he spent talking to the guy, and so he relaxes, letting his shoulders fall. He looks around once again, slowly talking his excitement down. Idly, out of the corner of his eye, in what he hopes is an unsuspicious manner, he watches “Cas” whenever he spots him.

He ends up ordering crème brulee – not that he’s never had that, but he considers it to be the Parisian version of pie, if you will, and so he goes for it. 

Every time the waiter stops by his table, Dean resists the urge to talk to him, spark up a conversation somehow. The only thing in the way is that Dean realizes the guy is pretty as it is, and the fact he wants to talk to him doesn’t change it a bit.

Dean leaves a pretty neat tip as he gets up, even though he knows it’s not such a tradition here in Paris – but he can’t help it. And he considers it to have been worth his while when he looks back when walking out, and his eyes meet Cas’, and they both smile. Dean doesn’t want to think about how the guy’s probably required to smile at everyone; he chooses to see it as a lovely gesture that they can keep a secret.

He walks out of the café feeling lighter, and it’s certainly not thanks to the movie. He realizes he forgot to take any pictures.

Macbeth in park, too, flees his mind completely.

 

The following day, Dean’s legs carry him to the café again. It shouldn’t have been his first stop, but here he is, sitting down in _Café des Deux Moulins_ , which is fairly crowded even at this hour – which would be a few minutes past ten – and looking around. He’s not examining the wall or the posters now; he doesn’t want to admit it to himself, but he’s searching for that dark-haired waiter alright. With stubbornness so familiar to him, he tells himself he’s here for the pictures, even though his camera is still tucked away safely in its case.

It is indeed a dark-haired someone who stops by to take Dean to his table, but it’s not ‘Cas’. It’s a girl who looks to be somewhere between Nico and Cas age-wise, tall enough to almost tower over Dean in an almost intimidating way despite the genuine smile on her face. Her hair is dark, but it’s more of a darker brown, and it curls in small waves. It’s short, short enough to not touch her neck.

“Bonjour!” she says with that same smile Dean has seen around here. “Would you like to eat or do you just want something to drink?”

Dean had breakfast literally half an hour ago. But… “I’d like some breakfast, thanks.”

“No problem,” she says and hands him the menu, which is, for change, in English. It’s almost disappointing because it means Cas won’t be there to save him from French menus – and it’s also unnecessary because he knows exactly what he wants.

When the new waitress comes around to ask for his order, he almost ashamedly asks for Coke and a crème brulee.

One thing he has to admit to this place, though, is that the service is super quick. Not even five minutes later, the waitress is leaning over the table, placing a bottle of Coke, a glass, a giant spoon and a bowl of crème brulee in front of him. Dean takes the opportunity to look at her nametag – it says her name is Max – and he also notices a necklace she’s wearing: it’s the Avengers logo.

When she pulls away with a frown on her face, Dean realizes it must have looked like he had been staring at her breasts, and he blushes.

“No, sorry,” he stutters, “I was just looking at your necklace. It’s cool.”

Max looks relieved at this, and her fingers shoot up to her neck to play with the silver logo. “Thanks. Are you a fan?”

“I am. Used to be a DC guy, but recently, you know. Marvel definitely wins.”

Max grins in satisfaction, definitely happy with Dean’s answer. “Agreed. Okay, gotta go. Enjoy your meal!”

Not so intimidating after all, Dean thinks as he picks up the spoon and taps it against the crispy upper layer of the pudding, now feeling like he’s actually _in_ the Amélie movie for doing that.

Dean is half done with his food when he finally notices Cas, standing behind the counter, telling something to his boss. Dean never saw him come in– probably entered via the back door.

“ _Je m'excuse que je suis en retard, mon réveil s'est cassé. Désolé.*_ ” As Cas is talking to the person behind the counter – well, Dean _does_ think it’s the boss, but you can never tell, really – he looks up and his eyes find Dean. For a moment, he looks surprised, but he ends up smiling and giving a small wave.

 _No way he remembers me,_ Dean thinks, _out of all the people that come here every day._

But the guy does seem to remember him, because after the assumed-boss stops shooting dissatisfied looks Cas’ way, he stops by Dean’s table, even though it’s in Max’s area.

“Hi!” he says enthusiastically, still smiling. “You came back for more, huh?” he asks and nods towards the half-empty plate in front of him.

“Sorta,” Dean mumbles, not knowing what to do with his hands. He plays with the spoon until it loudly clanks against the plate. He clears his throat, then, and puts the spoon down.

“Lovely,” Castiel comments, obviously just to say something, anything. He looks confused by his own actions, as Dean looks at him, but then his mind must set on something, because his face changes and he licks his lips nervously. “So what are you doing in Paris all alone? I mean, it seems like –”

“I’m on a sort of business trip here, really,” he cuts him off, saving him the trouble. “I work for a travel magazine. I’m supposed to ‘capture Paris as it hasn’t been seen before,’” he makes air quotes, “but, you know. Everyone saw everything when it comes to Paris. So I’m just running around the less famous stuff, taking pictures.”

Cas nods. “Wow. That sounds super interesting,” he muses, but Dean feels like he’s saying that just because; perhaps to make Dean feel better about having to go through this ordeal.

He feels flattered, to be honest, to be given Cas’ attention even though it’s not required.

Before he can comment on that – or not comment on that, really – the boss yells at Cas (it sounds more like “Caz” in her accent) and the waiter sighs.

“Okay, I gotta go. Really lovely to see you here again,” he says one more time, and this time, it leaves Dean blushing properly, red blossoming on his cheeks.

It’s very easy to go back to his yesterday’s actions – which is basically following Cas with his eyes. He’s so focused on that that he barely notices Max walking up to him and asking whether he wants something else. He absent-mindedly orders a cup of coffee with milk, ashamed of what he’s been doing, and proceeds to stare at the table for a second.

“Hey,” says a somewhat familiar voice and when Dean looks up, it’s Cas again. “So, I have a day off tomorrow, and I was thinking I could show you some nice cafes and stuff. If you wanted, I mean.”

Dean is momentarily taken aback and he’s pretty sure he forgets to close his mouth for a second. He’s desperately trying to decide whether Cas is just trying to be nice and help a fellow American, or whether he’s doing what Dean hopes he’s doing: that he wants to tag along because he likes Dean, just as much as Dean likes Cas.

Dean selfishly decides to believe the latter.

“That would be amazing,” he stutters out, “That would really help a lot. I’m Dean, by the way,” he introduces himself and holds out his hand.

Cas laughs. “Hi. I’m Cas. Which is short of Castiel.” His hand slides into Dean’s quickly and easily, and he shakes it a few times before letting go, his warm palm against Dean’s cold one. If Dean’s not mistaken, that’s a blush creeping in on Cas’ face. Good. At least he’s not alone.

“That’s an interesting name. But to be honest, I’m not surprised. My boss’ name is Balthazar.”

Once again, the same laugh; once again, Dean feels like it fills the room to the very top, and he’s surprised people are not turning their heads just to see the source of that giggle. “You have some serious luck with names.” Dean nods. “Okay, I have to work today, but we could meet tomorrow around ten, how does that sound?”

“Good to me.”

“Great. I can pick you up at your hotel, if you want. It’ll make things less confusing for you, I suppose.”

Dean writes the address of his hotel on a napkin (after Castiel reassures him that there are over a thousand hotels in Paris and there’s no way he’d recognize a random one by its name), along with his name and his phone number, and after a few more seconds of chatting, Castiel needs to go back to work. He leaves Dean at his table with a promise of a day spent together. Even though they don’t know each other, Dean can’t help but look forward to it.

It’s as if just like there’s a certain atmosphere to Paris, there’s a very special atmosphere to Cas, too. And Dean likes it.

 

“So what were you up to yesterday after you left?” Castiel starts the conversation after he picks Dean up at his hotel.

It’s the middle of June, but the morning air is chilly. Castiel must have walked here, the tips of his ears colored in baby pink, and Dean smiles to himself when he sees, quickly looks away and sticks his hands in his jean pockets.

“Nothing interesting, really,” he shrugs, “I went to the Saint-Martin canal, since that’s another Amélie location. Not that many people there, actually. I liked that.”

“I know, our café is terribly crowded,” Castiel nods and after a quick exchanged look, he starts walking in the direction of the Metro. “But it’s like that almost everywhere in this city. It’s not just tourists, you know. But eventually, you get used to it, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “So I was thinking, maybe we could go to the flea market that was in Midnight in Paris?” he suggests, ready to grab his guide from his handbag to check where they would need to go to get there. 

“Now _that_ place is crowded. I’ll take you to another one. There’s a fruit market, too. I think you’ll like it.”

Dean can’t really say no -- doesn’t really want to. His hand leaves the handbag alone within seconds. After all, Castiel only wanted to come along to help Dean find some good material for his article – although Dean would like to believe something else. He trusts Cas with this, though. In the end, Castiel is an American guy who learned how to live here – he should be able to appreciate Paris from both the point of view of a person visiting the city for the first time, _and_ the point of view of someone who is familiar with Paris and has found places to appreciate it still.

 _That_ interests Dean. He wants to know how Castiel found those markets in the first place – did he get lost looking for an apartment and stumbled upon stall next to a stall offering fruit and vegetables for cheap?

He doesn’t ask, though, cautious and terribly embarrassed to even be here, walking down the stairs to the Metro, the air growing hotter and more humid immediately. It feels right to be robbing Cas of his free time and that’s scary.

The fruit market and the flea market (both very close to each other as Cas promised) at _Marché d’Aligre_ , when they get to it, are buzzing with people.

Dean can tell the difference right away, though; this is not your average Parisian mass of people. He doesn’t see many people carrying cameras. He sees a lady dressed in a suit buying tomatoes on her way to work. He sees two men walk next to each other, discussing something with concentration on their faces, barely noticing their surroundings. They are all Parisians, their heels clicking against the pavement, and while crowded, the atmosphere they radiate is something new.

Dean tries to breathe it in; takes pictures of everything he can, only slightly worried he will not be able to capture the _now_ , while Castiel chats with a guy selling cherries in quick French that basically sounds like gibberish in Dean’s ears.

Dean stops at the flea market, barely two feet away from the last stall with fresh nectarines, to look through old books. Most of them are in French, but here and there he picks up a copy of an old book in English. At one point, he runs into a sixty year old edition of Charles Dickens’s Christmas Carol and even though he’s the opposite of a Dickens fan, he almost buys it.

Then he runs into a very old torn copy of Vonnegut’s Cat’s Cradle, and his eyes practically light up, especially when he sees it’s only one Euro. The spine is loose and when he smells it, his nostrils fill with the characteristic smell of old books, unmistakable even here in the open. He traces his fingers over the pale blue hands drawn on the cover.

He buys it, of course, and the seller adds a vintage Laurel & Hardy pin as a gift, smiling a crooked smile, one of his front teeth missing.

“Just imagine if someone found a random copy of Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises,” Dean muses when they’re on their way from the fruit market to Trocadero. “He wrote that in Paris, you know.”

Cas next to him laughs – he’s been generally very amused by Dean’s excitement. “Yeah, I know.”

Dean is not sure how he feels about going to Trocadero, since that’s basically right next to the Eiffel Tower, but when Cas tells him he won’t regret it, he lets him lead the way.

The Trocadero square in itself is a tiny place surrounded by at least a dozen cafés, its smallness obvious compared to the famous Trocadero stairs just across the street. Castiel leads him to the one that’s the farthest away from the steps leading down to the Tower, though, and he sits them down. There’s a slight breeze; the only thing keeping the temperature down, as the morning chill has long gone. The square is busy; the sidewalk full with people, cars strolling by. Somehow, it seems quiet anyway; possibly because of the ever-present row of trees surrounding the place. 

Cas, after pulling his chair closer to the table, orders two glasses of Bordeaux and two glasses of fresh orange juice. Dean doesn’t comment on the fact he doesn’t particularly like either, just rolls with it. 

(Later, Cas even makes him try green olives with the wine, and Dean has to admit that the drink tastes delicious combined with that, the saltiness of the olives mixing with the bitterness of the drink creating a distinct, pleasant taste. And that’s saying something, because normally, olives would make Dean’s stomach flip.)

Dean ends up liking the place – not just because it’s surprisingly lovely, but also because he can’t deny the view with the Eiffel Tower right in front of him. Even the people walking by are worth looking at – most of them are elegant or just casual, but some are dressed extravagantly and Dean has to admit that he likes the originality. It makes him wonder whether there are people like this in New York, too, and he has just never paid any attention to them.

“So, why did you move to Paris in the first place?” Dean asks after an hour or so of talking. He feels comfortable and confident enough to start asking personal questions – they’ve discussed how Dean got into photography and working for a prestigious magazine, they’ve talked about his brother and all sorts of things, really. They’ve talked about Castiel’s life in Paris, but Dean finds himself wanting to know more.

Castiel is quiet for a moment, looking into his half-empty glass of wine, as if considering if he can trust Dean or not. To Dean’s luck, he decides to go for it; perhaps because they are still in the ‘stranger’ territory, not having crossed the friend line yet, and it’s always easier to talk to strangers. Makes you feel like you might never see them again and your vulnerability will not backfire; Dean hopes that’s not the case, though. It would be a shame if they were never to see each other again.

“You know, it was mostly family drama.”

Dean raises his eyebrow. “What do you mean?” 

“I came out as gay when I was eighteen,” Castiel admits and Dean subconsciously breathes out. What is about to follow this statement is obviously some kind of a small tragedy, but Dean allows himself to go ‘hell yes’ in his head for a second or two. Castiel seems to be almost worried about admitting this to Dean, even though Dean has mentioned Michael along with other relationships with other men or women, and that shuts Dean’s inner happy person up.

“I suppose it didn’t go well?” Dean prompts when the silence stretches on and on, like honey.

“I guess you could say that. My mother was okay, but then again, she was okay with just about anything. She didn’t really care. But my father was absolutely horrible. He was one of those religious people who think that homosexuality is a sin and what not. I would say I was a good son – I mean, I’d like to think so – but that wasn’t enough. You know, verbal abuse and all that kind of fun stuff. And I couldn’t take it anymore, I guess.”

“I thought you said you had siblings,” Dean notes, momentarily confused, expanding the conversation rather than commenting on what’s been said, as that makes his gut squeeze and steals any sort of comfort out of his mouth.

“It’s not like my father had less power over them than he had over me, though,” Castiel mutters, shifting in his seat, staring in front of him rather than at Dean. “They basically sided with him.”

Which is ridiculous. Dean cannot imagine a world where Sam wouldn’t try to defend Dean, even if he didn’t completely agree with him; can’t imagine a world without such support system. Suddenly, Dean realizes how lucky he got with having a brother like Sam – he has no idea what it’s like to have to handle everything alone, to fight the world all on his own.

He knows, suddenly, that it must be exhausting.

He doesn’t want to ask about friends, because what if there were none and it would make the memory hurt more? He generally doesn’t know what to say to this confession – he had no idea he was signing up for this when he decided to bring up Cas’ motivation to leave the US and everyone in it behind. He purses his lips, trying to come up with at least some sort of comfort, but his mind is completely empty. It’s as if he knew that no words could fix this – and so he shuts up, hoping it isn’t offensive silence. 

“Why move to Paris, though?” he almost whispers instead. 

“I don’t know,” Castiel shrugs, his lips finally loosening into a small smile, and he turns his face back to look at Dean, finally. “The tickets were cheap and I don’t know. I guess I lived in this bubble where Europe and Paris especially seemed like a magical, accepting place to me.”

The smile, Dean now realizes, is mocking past Cas who would think that.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean says then, looking down. He tries to imagine a young Castiel, all alone in this giant city, trying to find a place where he could be happy, and he knows this is not the image he wants to think about.

Castiel sighs, but then a real smile forces its way onto his face, replacing the other one. “I mean, families can be shitty. But I did find my place here, and I am sort of happy. So that’s good.”

Dean relaxes after Cas says that. He allows himself to smile, and he is confused when he realizes that all he wants to do is reach out and take Castiel’s hand in his in a reassuring gesture. 

He feels like despite the fact they’ve only known each other for only a little over a day, they just got close. I like you, Dean wants to say, but he’s not sure if that’s true. He likes sitting next to Cas here, he likes being in his presence. 

That’s, perhaps, why he doesn’t mind how cramped the train they take from Trocadero is.

Dean and Cas snatch a place near the pole to hold on to something, people pressing against them from every side, but it’s okay; because standing opposite each other, their chests are nearly touching and their hands, sweaty, slide up and down the pole, always dangerously close to each other.

They don’t talk; it would be useless to even try. There are kids in the same carriage playing loud French pop music. But Dean is content just watching the wind that picks up every time they leave a station ruffle Cas’ dark hair, his eyes never leaving Cas.

He can feel his clothes cling to his body in a sweaty mess, enjoys the air flowing through the train when it picks up speed and disappears in yet another tunnel.

He feels spent and exhausted, but yeah – content.

Content till the moment where he feels someone’s hand sink down his back pocket. 

Dean remembers the _beware of pick pockets_ sign he read back at the Gare du Nord station, and he turns around with a frown, ready to catch whoever it is stealing from him.

He is met with a stare from a middle aged man with a beard, streaks of gray trailing through it. When he catches Dean’s eyes, he smirks.

“What the fuck?” Dean moves to slap the man’s hand away, losing balance momentarily and leaning to the side, resting his weight heavily on Castiel. His heart is going fast; Dean’s not sure whether to laugh or start seeing red.

Everything becomes blurry for a second. Strong hands grip him – strong hands that he later recognizes as Cas’ – and then Castiel is shielding him, somehow.

“ _Gardez vos sales pattes pour vous, il n'est pas interessé. Il est avec moi._ **”

Dean can’t understand a word, but he can definitely hear the annoyance in Cas’ voice – can hear the frown in it, and he’s almost sorry he cannot see his expression right now. The bearded man, Dean can see over Cas’ shoulder, laughs and mumbles something, turning away from them.

Dean stares at the man’s neck, wishing he would be able to say something, too – tell the man how this is not okay, tell him that touching someone without consent is a crime he should get his arms cut off for, no mercy. He knows that yelling angered words in English would do nothing, though; would probably encourage the man’s smile further. He purses his lips, folds them into a thin line, feeling his exasperation grip him in a choke hold. 

He hates that he cannot do anything to stop every man who ever does this, either to another man or a woman. He hates it.

He’s waken up from this angry haze only when Castiel huffs out a breath and places his hand back on the pole, turns back to Dean. Dean’s breath hitches in his throat; Castiel’s little finger rests above Dean’s forefinger, and Dean almost chokes on confusion; is it intentional, or is it not? Did Castiel’s hand just slip on sweat, or did he place it there on purpose?

Either way, it takes Dean aback – about as much as the incident itself had – and he forgets to be grumpy about being able to deal with it himself and not needing someone’s protection – if not with words, with his bare hands for sure..

“What did you say to him?” he inquires instead.

“Just to keep his hands to himself,” Castiel mumbles, looking down.

Dean nods, not sure why that sounds anticlimactic and unsatisfying to him, but he lets it go. He relaxes, his shoulders finally falling back down from being tensed and kept upwards, and his fingers release the pole from his death grip.

The man gets off the train on the next stop, and by the time Cas and Dean get off again, the air now still and once again smelling of urine and _something_ , Dean has successfully shaken the incident off, the ants of anxiety that had been crawling all over his body now gone.

What he hasn’t managed to shake off are Cas’ fingers touching his; he liked the sensation, even with his own fingers wet from sweat, slippery, warm. He can’t seem to forget Cas’ own warmth, too; just like he feels it now, walking out of the Metro side by side. 

He likes it so much he almost forgets he’s not in this city just to be with him, but to work, too.

He only remembers later that day when Castiel takes him to the Latin quarter and then to see the artists’ squats – none of which Dean can use in his article for Balthazar, but it’s definitely one of the more interesting things he’s seen in Paris.

He does take a lot of pictures, though, and more surprisingly, he laughs, he talks, and he likes Cas.

 

The next day, Dean wakes up around nine in the morning, which is later than when he was supposed to get up. He’s got a meeting with Castiel at ten – which he is both looking forward to and anxious about.

The night before, before they parted ways, Castiel talked Dean into visiting Montmartre – they’re supposed to meet at the Barbes-Rochechouart Metro station and go there together. Dean is not all that excited about Montmartre – to him, he could go with just the part where Cas’ café is, or the Boulevard Montmartre itself, but he didn’t want to pass up on a chance to hang out with Cas some more.

He barely makes it.

The Metro station, one of the ones outdoors, is awfully crowded, one tourist next to another, some of them yawning, some of them early birds who has already seen this and that. Dean manages to find Castiel just fine, however – and thank God he’s already there.

“Hey!” he greets him with a smile when he walks up to him.

Cas turns around with the same kind of smile on his face. “Hi! Hey, the train’s here.” Dean involuntarily tears his gaze away from Castiel’s face and the smile shining on it, the morning sun playing on his face, to look at the approaching train, the hoard of people inching towards the edge of the platform.

Before they can exchange any more words, the train arrives at the station and both Dean and Castiel hop on the nearest carriage, which is even more crowded than the station itself. They’re pressed against each other (and other people against them) once again, and Dean’s breath hitches in his throat when he feels Cas’ butt bump into his crotch.

“Sorry,” Castiel turns around awkwardly with an apologetic smile on his face, and Dean can’t help but think that he actually did it on purpose. Choosing to believe this, it’s extremely hard to not return the gesture and move his hips forward.

The train ride is short, and makes Dean wonder why they couldn’t just walk instead. They exit the Metro to – yes, a street that is _even more_ crowded, which, at this point, is almost unbelievable.

“I thought you said it wasn’t so crowded in the morning,” Dean comments as he looks around.

“Yeah, it’s just that the street is basically the opposite of wide and there’s a lot of shops,” Castiel shrugs and grips the strap of Dean’s bag. “Come on, I’m good at moving through crowds. It’ll be better when we get up there.”

That part is true. Castiel _is_ remarkably good at navigating through crowds. It doesn’t make the crowd smaller, though, and about halfway up the tiny street, Dean is eternally grateful for Cas holding on to Dean’s bag and leading the way. Dean opts to look at his feet, watch them take one step after another, trying to not think of the mass of bodies surrounding him from every angle; tries to breathe, ignore the occasional shoulder bump and the incredible noise the tourists are making, talking and laughing. 

Once they walk up the crowded street – and Dean’s eyes land on Sacre Coeur for the first time, and he almost understands why people love going here so much – he can actually breathe without bumping into strangers.

Castiel lets go of Dean’s bag and looks at him with not very well hidden concern, a quiet _are you okay_ in his eyes.

Dean tries to smile; manages a lopsided smirk that doesn’t fully manage to shoo the short lasting panic away from his face. “It’s cool, it’s just the crowds get to me sometimes. It’s cool.”

Castiel seems to understand, though – he decides to take the stairs on the side up, not the small _Funiculaire de Montmartre_ , and Dean stops every once in a while to take a picture. 

It’s relaxing; and a wonderful change after the busy street – the stairs are hiding in the trees’ shade, wide. Small rocks catch underneath their shoes, and Dean allows himself to breathe in the air, the faint melody of an Edith Piaf song playing down on the small square with the carousel. They pass a few tourists here and there – an elderly couple, a child hopping down the stairs, holding on to his parents’ hands for support.

Still, they are both kind of out of breath by the time they climb the hill and get to the basilica. There’s too many people for Dean’s taste now, squirming around like ants, and the sky is too clear to take any interesting pictures of the building, so Cas takes him to Place du Tertre, swarming with artists.

Since Dean didn’t get to eat breakfast at the hotel in order to meet Cas on time, they manage to find an empty table in one of the cafes and Dean orders an omelet, while Cas orders some salad (which reminds Dean of Sam and brings an amused smile to his face).

They sit without keeping up any sort of conversation for a while – Cas sipping on his fresh orange juice and Dean just looking around, trying to take the atmosphere in. Because there _is_ an atmosphere to this place, Cas didn’t lie about it; he’s just surprised to like it so much. He watches the giant mass of people – that seems to grow with every passing second – move down and up the streets; the artists offering their art for ridiculous prices near the cafes, and others stopping tourists and offering a portrait. Most of them refuse, but some don’t, and Dean likes watching the two strangers chat as the artist does his job and sells an average drawing for over twenty bucks.

“I can’t imagine just stopping strangers and asking them to pose for me or whatever,” Dean utters with his mouth full, after they finally get their orders.

Castiel beside him shrugs. “Well, what else can they do when they don’t have a seat and want to work here?”

“True,” Dean admits. “Couldn’t they, like, snatch a seat really early in the morning?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure whether or not they pay actual rent for the spot. But there are rumors that the waiting list for a spot here at Montmartre is as long as the Wall of China.”

“No kidding.”

“No kidding. Just imagine. People waiting for someone else to die so they can take their seats.”

“Wow, Cas. Tell me more, I’m only trying to eat here.”

Castiel laughs heartily. “Bon appétit, Dean,” he says jokingly and goes back to his salad, wonderfully not aware of Dean who stops chewing just to pay Cas’ face one more glance. 

 

Dean spends the rest of the day wandering around Paris. It’s a city he ends up not wanting to explore on his own, but has no other choice.

He ends up going back near the Eiffel Tower and other places that are always swamped with tourists and instead of working on the pictures he should be working on, he starts taking pictures of random people doing random things, trying to capture the atmosphere and the emotion they represent. A little girl biting down on too big a toast; two women well in their forties buying Bob Marley-esque hats; a girl taking a picture of her boyfriend squeezing the Eiffel Tower behind him between his fingers.

It’s entertaining enough for Dean to spend the majority of his day doing it; some of his pictures are imperfect, his tripod still resting in his hotel room, abandoned. 

However, when he gets a text from Cas, he welcomes it anyway.

 _How about I take you to a gay club? That’s something tourists don’t usually get to see._

It’s everything the text states, no emoticons to hint at a joke, and Dean’s insides tighten. 

He is not the biggest fan of gay clubs to begin with – the space is way too open, everyone can see you, and Dean can imagine living his life without having to put up with situations like this.

On the other hand, Castiel must have a reason to invite him – it’s not like Dean could take his camera with him and spend the evening there taking pictures like a dork.

To say the least, Dean is tempted.

So tempted, in fact, that he ends up saying yes. Castiel then texts him an address of the gay club, telling him to meet him there around half past nine.

Dean is almost ashamed of how long it takes him to get ready – it literally takes at least three different outfits crafted from his very limited options, till he decides he looks presentable enough to go. The reflection staring back at him when he looks at himself for the thousandth time in the mirror is judging; which looks funny, accompanied by a blush because he’s so worked up about a guy.

He finds the club without problem, and he’s glad, because he wouldn’t want to stop random Parisians and ask about a gay club. Paris might be a more liberal city (although Dean has seen such an overload of straight couples here it really makes him wonder), but he still wouldn’t want to experience that.

Dean blossoms in pride when Cas tells him that he looks good, and with a blush that is hopefully hidden in the darkness of the night, he returns the compliment.

On this night, Dean’s attraction to Cas grows even more. 

As they sit at the bar (and Dean, amused, notices that Paris gay clubs are not at all different from the ones he visited back in the US; except maybe they’re louder) and joke, trying to talk over the loud music and drinking beers, Dean grows fond of him. He likes him, he decides.

And the more time he spends with him, the stronger his affection grows. 

Cas is smart and witty and entertaining and seems to take Dean in the way he is, not wanting to change him, not scrunching up his nose at anything he does or says. It’s not like they know each other as well as the back of their hands – not even close, of course – but what Dean does know doesn’t offend him. No, the opposite – it lures him in, closer to Cas.

He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t want to think about why. He suddenly doesn’t understand why there should be an answer to every damn question; why he couldn’t just like Cas as it is, without any further reason to, to like him simply because Cas _is_ and that is perfectly enough.

Dean has only one fact to thank – that he is not an affectionate drunk (or just an affectionate tipsy person). If he were, he would be all over Cas within minutes. This way, they can simply joke and have fun and Dean loves it. It’s hard to describe the feeling, but Cas’ laugh, although absorbed in the noise surrounding them, is warm; and Dean’s lungs expand, his chest heaving underneath the warmth. It’s new and unexplored and Dean finds himself welcoming it.

At some point during the night, a tall guy with blonde hair walks up to Dean and asks him if he wants to dance (which Dean understands only after they establish that French is something he doesn’t dig – Castiel beside him giggling as Dean tries to explain), and Dean, surprising even himself, says no.

“Why didn’t you go? You could’ve had fun,” Castiel comments after he’s done giggling and the stranger is gone, leaving a literal cloud smelling of his cologne behind.

Dean shrugs. “It’s not that I don’t want to dance. Just that I didn’t want to dance with _him_ ,” he explains cryptically, and Cas nods his head like he completely understands what’s being said.

“I see,” he says, and then, to prove that somehow he really does understand, he adds, “So, wanna go dance?”

Dean does. Oh, yes, Dean does want to go dance with Cas.

He nods after a second of hesitation, trying so hard to not read into this and failing terribly. 

Nothing happens on the dance floor. They dance, they laugh, they go back to the bar to drink and then back to the dance floor and so on and so on, over and over again, but except for random accidental touching and a few looks they exchange, nothing happens. They’re carefully keeping their distance, staying at friends dancing together, mere inches from I-want-you’s dancing together. 

Dean laughs at that, but when Cas asks what’s funny, Dean cannot explain that he can’t believe how careful two people become when they want to touch each other but don’t know how.

They fall out of the club around one in the morning, still laughing, tipsy and without a care in the world.

Castiel insists that he walks Dean to his hotel, and Dean doesn’t refuse; they walk, their shoulders brushing occasionally, Dean telling Cas how he surprisingly enough really likes French pop music they played at the club.

Sooner than Dean would want, he sees the neon lights of his hotel. He has to bite his tongue to not invite Cas up – he knows it would be inappropriate, and even though he really wants to, he wouldn’t do it. Besides, he wouldn’t want to ruin this with casual drunk sex, which is wrong as it is – and somehow, Cas is way more special than that. At least to Dean, at least right now.

He’s just about to say goodnight as they stop when Cas looks up at him, the light from the streetlamps playing with the blue of his eyes. “I talked to my boss and she says I can take another day off tomorrow if I want. You know, I’m not one to take days off usually, so… If you wanted to spend another day with me.”

Dean’s heart skips a beat and the corner of his mouth goes up in a grin. Now he _is_ reading into this, and he’s pretty sure that what he understands and takes from this is one hundred percent right. His heart goes back to normal, _thump, yes, thump, I do, thump, yes_.

“That would be awesome, Cas,” he breathes out.

He likes that they are no longer playing the “let me help you with finding good places to work” game – he likes that they are both admitting to liking each other and wanting to spend time with one another. They don’t have much of that time left, since the first week of Dean’s trip is dangerously close to being up.

For the first time in a very long time, Dean shudders in anticipation, each and every cell in his body reaching forwards, trying to make Dean lean closer and kiss Cas, right here and now.

“Okay,” Castiel smiles, but it’s so quiet and gentle it does not even come close to breaking the spell Dean is under right now.

They stare at each other, Dean feeling like he’s in of those cheesy soap operas he’s always hated – and then watched anyway, and he can’t help but think that they both want to do the same thing. He thinks about what Cas’ mouth must taste like, and whether the gentle stubble on his face would scratch or caress, and he desperately wants to lean in and just go for it. 

Castiel gulps.

The moment seems to last ten thousand years, and they are both slowly inching forward. 

But in the end, the kiss they are both waiting for doesn’t come. A car blasts past them, and the moment is over. They both stand straight again, and Dean smiles sheepishly. 

“I’ll see you in the morning, then?” he suggests, a bitter taste of regret spreading like acid in his mouth.

 

To be honest, Dean is more than thankful to not be sporting a hangover the following morning. True, he didn’t have that much to drink, but it’s still something he thanks all the Gods for. He does wake up feeling a little stretched out, like someone pulled at his limbs and made him more hollow overnight, but the shower cleans it off him and the fact that he only hits his elbow once feels too much like victory.

By the time he walks out of the hotel – just to find Castiel standing in the spot where they _almost_ kissed last night, so out of place now in daylight, so sober but not less tempting -- he’s fine. 

And that’s good, because they begin the day with a walk. 

Castiel doesn’t exactly tell him where they’re going. In fact, he just utters something about an art gallery and leaves it at that; refuses to tell Dean anything else. And oh, Dean does ask. He spends the whole walk asking and trying to make Cas tell him, but it is to no avail. Which is kind of admirable, considering Dean’s constant whining; and it serves as a form of distraction, too.

Truth be told, though, Dean loves surprises. (As long as they’re not the “we need to talk” nasty surprises. This one doesn’t seem to be of that kind, however.)

They end up at the Art Ludique – Le Musée, as the green sign informs them, which tells Dean… well, nothing. He’s never heard of it.

There’s a little line already forming at the entrance, but thankfully, it doesn’t take very long for them to get inside. The _‘L’Art des Super-Héros Marvel’_ poster inside reveals what this is all about.

“Whoa,” Dean exclaims and turns to face Cas with a surprised expression on his face. “How did I not hear about this? How did _you_ hear about this?”

“Well,” Cas fidgets, looking anywhere but at Dean, “A little bird told me you liked Marvel, so I thought you might like this.”

Dean is immediately overcome by a wave of affection, and it takes a lot for him to stay calm, because his inner child is freaking out and all he wants to do is take Cas, hug him and force a kiss onto his awfully perfect mouth. Or maybe just hold his hands – somehow, that seems like it would be enough, maybe even the perfect kind of connection Dean can taste in every word they exchange.

“You bet!” is all Dean says instead, and he nudges Cas with his shoulder. “Hey, was Max that little bird?”

“Yeah,” Cas nods, “She’s a good friend. We’ve known each other for ages; it was her who talked our boss into hiring me.”

Dean simply nods, wondering how many little things there are to Cas that he doesn’t have a clue about, wondering how come he wants to find out about all of them and more. 

They spend over an hour at the museum, Dean geeking out to such a degree it makes him dizzy – and Cas tagging along with what seems to be not really interest in the exhibition, but rather in the fact that Dean is enjoying himself. Castiel, if anything, seems to be proud to have thought of this, even if Max helped.

Meanwhile, Dean calls this day one of the best days of his life without hesitation (and Cas says he knows what he means – the day he went to the Harry Potter studios is apparently still the best of Cas’ life), and as they leave the museum, Dean is still floating on a Marvel cloud, talking about the exhibition. 

 

Castiel takes him to the Luxembourg gardens next, but Dean isn’t a big fan of it. It’s too neat, too organized. He does take a few pictures, though, just so he can ease his conscience and tell himself that he is actually working on the article.

When Dean complains about not liking the gardens, Castiel takes him to Place des Vosges instead, which is definitely smaller and way more lovely. Quieter, too. Dean happily takes at least forty different pictures – some of the park, but most of them of Castiel. He’s not even bothered by it at this point – he knows he’ll be happy he took these once he’s back in New York, painfully Cas-less.

It’s a nice hot day, and so they end up lying down on the grass, using Cas’ hoodie that he wore in the chill of the late morning as a blanket. They’re pressed close to each other, and Dean feels oddly peaceful. They talk for hours on end; about movies, about books, about themselves, and it genuinely feels amazing. Dean feels like he’s found his happy place, right here in this park next to Cas, people walking past them, not noticing two boys shifting and shifting till they sit side to side, bodies touching.

Dean doesn’t want to leave Place des Vosges at all, afraid it will break the fragile porcelain structure of this afternoon haze. He likes it way too much, but Cas mocks him for being a lazy ass and makes him go for a walk near the Seine anyway.

“Geez, Cas. You’re trying to woo me now or what?” he jokes, his stomach turning a cartwheel as he does.

“Oh, you Americans think walking by the Seine is so romantic,” Castiel comments, but Dean notices the pink that covers his cheeks. “Do you even know how many drug dealers we could run into?”

“Okay, I’m convinced,” Dean laughs.

They decide to go for ice cream instead of drug dealers, though, and once they get that, they sit down right next to the river.

“The ice cream is not even that good,” Dean muses, but he’s lying – the ice cream is creamy as it is supposed to be, and overall just freaking delicious, catching on his taste buds and lingering.

“What are you talking about,” Castiel frowns at him in surprise, “It’s literally the most delicious vanilla ice cream I have ever ever had.”

“You filthy liar. But yeah, it’s good,” Dean laughs.

On the opposite side of the river, a young couple – a boy and a girl – sit down and maneuver themselves into a hugging position, him sitting behind her and wrapping his arms around her protectively. And here Cas tried to tell him the Seine wasn’t a romantic spot. 

Dean eats the ice cream idly, licking at it, wrapping his mouth around it, momentarily lost in thought. Distantly, he is aware of the summer breeze slipping through his hair, but the warmth of Cas’ body next to him is, ironically, lost to him as he imagines Cas’ arms wrap around him, copying the couple opposite them. He wonders whether he could hear Cas’ heartbeat when leaning against his chest, whether he would feel the beat against his back like strong hands banging on a drum. Dean’s own heart sure is trying to break out through his ribs, escape his body and settle next to Cas’ like a tamed animal.

What wakes him up from this daydream is a wet drop of melted ice cream, barely cold anymore, slipping down and reaching his thumb.

Dean jerks and licks it off quickly, his chest heaving in a sigh. He’s not completely sure how he’s gotten here; Paris, out of all places, sunny and surprisingly warm to him, both on his skin and in his heart, someone like Cas by his side. Days, _hours_ they have spent with each other, but Dean can’t imagine sitting here alone.

“You’ve got some on your face,” Cas’ voice comes in a raspy tone, as if they haven’t spoken in hours.

It throws Dean off; he turns to look at Castiel’s face in surprise. It’s wiped clean when his eyes fall upon the lazy smile on his face. 

“Here,” Castiel brings his fingers up to his face, pointing it at his chin, and when Dean realizes what he’s talking about, aggressive shade of red appears on his face and covers it as he chews his bottom lip and runs the back of his hand across his chin.

He is too frozen to look away; although he wishes to. _Did I get all of it?_ he wants to ask, but his lips seem to be zipped together, stitched together, and ripping them open would hurt (although the only thing wounded would be Dean’s ego).

Something hitches in the air, then. Dean can feel it break; he’s still, grotesquely aware of everything else in motion. The breeze is still there, right in his face, cold underneath his mouth where he tried to lick it clean. 

“You missed some,” Castiel says then, as if explaining the sudden stillness of Dean’s body, and he leans in, eyes wide open instead of fluttering close, and his mouth hovers over Dean’s cheek for a few seconds before pressing down on it.

Dean gasps and his first instinct is to pull away, run and hide from the warmth of Cas’ lips, but then he feels Castiel’s tongue brush against his cheek and he relaxes into it. Cas moves to Dean’s lips, lingering for only a second, a ghost of a touch, to his chin and back to his cheek to lick off the ice cream.

“Really delicious,” he murmurs before his lips cover Dean’s mouth again.

Dean tastes vanilla, the sweetness of it mixing with the taste in his own mouth.

He’s not thinking. His mind is a blur and all that exists is Cas pressing against him, invading his personal space, kissing him like his life depends on it.

Dean pulls him closer, one hand running down Cas’ back and the other one resting on his shoulder blade, as if taking care that Cas stays just like this for at least an eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *"Sorry, I'm an idiot, my alarm's broken. Sorry."
> 
> **"Keep your hands to yourself, he's not interested. He's with me."


	2. Chapter 2

Dean wakes up in a dream-like state the next day; strangely awake the second his eyes shoot open, lazy and unwilling to move at the same time. 

The first thing he realizes, beside the fact that he needs to pee, is that he won’t be able to see Cas today because he has to work, and if he’s being honest with himself, it saddens him.

As he sits up and moves to get up, his legs over the edge of the bed, tiptoes barely brushing the floor, he rubs his face and the memory of their kiss creeps into his sleep-ridden mind. A funny thing occurs to him; if he were a teenage boy, he might have used the word ‘magical’ when referring to it.

Dean is unable to get out of this sort of hazy state he’s in, or so it seems. He’s still riding the high from the day before, and it’s not like he’s complaining.

Spending the day with Cas or not, this is what makes him almost excited to pack the things for his trip to Giverny, which is all he’s really got planned for today. Cas told him that he will like it, so the whole ordeal of getting there seems more bearable and promising.

Mostly because he gets to spend hours on end daydreaming about a certain dark-haired waiter whose mouth tastes like vanilla ice cream.

That’s exactly what he does. First on his way to the St. Lazare station, surprisingly bright to his eyes, and then on the forty-something minute train ride from there to Vernon. And then also on the bus from there to Giverny -- because, obviously, you can’t just go to Giverny like it’s nothing. You have to spend a fortune first, and then you have to spend half a day travelling.

But it’s true; Dean doesn’t mind today. It’s been a long time since he didn’t mind.

In fact, even taking pictures of the famous Monet gardens in Giverny, Dean’s mind is preoccupied with the image of Cas’ face. Not that he doesn’t appreciate the beauty in front of him, but he’d much rather be here with Castiel. As he takes a picture of the tiny bridge crossing the water, he imagines Cas standing there, bent to the water; when he tries to figure out how to take a picture of the red roses, he thinks about them in contrast to the blue of Castiel’s eyes.

By the time Dean gets on the train back to Paris, he’s in too deep. He’s fantasizing about another kiss, imagining possible scenarios, and generally shaking his head at himself for letting a random guy – has Cas ever been that, though? -- fool him so much. 

Dean can’t exactly wrap his mind around it – there _is_ something about Cas that makes Dean lose his mind, but he can’t figure out what it is. It bothers him, at first at least, because he didn’t expect it come barging into his world; Castiel has filled up a lot of the empty space, for seemingly no reason. Or, perhaps, a reason Dean doesn’t understand.

Maybe it’s the awfully cheesy city, after all. Who even knows anymore?

All Dean knows is that Castiel grabbed him and hasn’t let go, not yet, and that’s why Dean almost subconsciously reaches for his phone the second he’s back in Paris, and dials Cas’ number, thankful they decided to exchange them just in case.

Cas picks up right away, but says, “Busy right now, will call back in a few minutes.” And he hangs up.

It’s a bit more than just a few minutes, though, because by the time Cas calls back, Dean is stretching his legs on his hotel bed, changing channels, frustrated that there are only French ones and none of them plays the trashy pop music Dean heard at the gay club. 

When Dean’s phone rings, he reaches for it like it’s his only salvation (and technically, it is. It would have taken him an extra bored hour to decide what to do with his day, and he’s not interested in that).

“I’m sorry, Dean, work is crazy today,” Castiel apologizes instead of saying hi.

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it,” Dean assures him as he turns off the TV, lying back, resting his head on his free hand. “I was wondering if you were busy tonight?” he asks in a tiny voice, only now realizing it’s almost as if he was asking Castiel out on a date; what a strange concept dates are, how easy it is to get one sometimes.

For a second, there’s silence. Then Dean hears muffled voices in the background, which goes on for a minute or so before Castiel’s voice comes back.

“Okay, Max told me she could work my shift tonight,” he says and Dean blushes when he realizes Cas is actually saying yes and doing this for him. “What did you have in mind?”

“I was thinking, maybe dinner?” Dean suggests, still almost speechless, and definitely still blushing.

“Oh, okay. I think I know just a place,” Castiel exclaims happily, latching onto Dean’s idea without problem. “Meet you at your hotel at seven?” 

“That would be great,” Dean nods, and by this point, he’s grinning while staring at the ceiling. “And tell Max thank you.”

“Will do,” Castiel laughs. “I’m glad you called, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean mumbles, “Me too. I’ll see you in a bit, then.”

Dean bites down on his lip when they end the phone call. _You’re doomed_ , a tiny voice at the back of his mind tells him. He might be; and he might even be happy about it.

 

“So where exactly are you taking me?” Dean asks as they exit the Metro at the Cardinal Lemoine station. It’s become a habit; they will descent the Metro stairs, Dean will breathe in the characteristic smell, hands in pockets, and Cas will refuse to tell him where they’re going. 

“Well, part of it is a surprise,” Castiel muses, “but the other part is dinner. We’re going to rue Mouffetard, there are some nice restaurants there where we can eat and it’s delicious.”

“Not that I don’t like food, we both know I do,” Dean laughs, “but I’m way more excited about the surprise right now.”

“Come on, it’s not that far away,” Castiel tugs at Dean’s leather jacket. They walk past a few florist shops and Dean spends most of the short walk looking around – the buildings in this part of the city are remarkably old and remind him of Van Gogh’s paintings, although he knows he found inspiration in Montmartre, not here. They tower around them, though, some of them naked under peeled off paint, some of them wearing darker colors, standing out. The smooth asphalt and the cars passing by are a crack in an image created by the obvious age of the place around them.

Castiel stops all of a sudden, after they take a turn to the right, entering a tiny, seemingly packed street – edging on an alley, in front of a closed bookstore. Dean frowns. “Okay? That’s… interesting?” He frowns, though, and then raises his eyebrows. He doesn’t see the point in this.

Cas’ warm hand wraps around Dean’s wrist and as they exchange a look, Castiel points upwards. Dean follows his fingers obediently, his eyes landing on a golden plate. His slight short-sightedness might be fooling him, but he’s pretty sure –

“Cas, that’s in French,” he says, “I don’t speak French.”

Castiel scoffs. “I’ve noticed. You’re not the brightest, either. Just look at it.”

Dean sighs, partly in frustration because he could argue but doesn’t want to, and does what he’s told. His eyes skim the text, stopping on the name Ernest Hemingway, hard to read in the falling darkness of the evening. “Whoa, whoa,” he says, “This is not – is this…?”

“Hemingway’s old apartment, yes,” Castiel nods, “I think you mentioned him when you found that Vonnegut book? So I thought I would –”

Dean almost forgets to close his mouth. He’s mesmerized and fascinated, almost – he used to read Hemingway in high school, but not since then, but this – this is incredible. He can almost see Papa Hemingway brush past Dean to get into the building, only eighty years ago.

“We actually walked past James Joyce’s as well, but –” 

“Okay, read it to me,” Dean cuts him off quickly and his eyes jump from the golden plate to Castiel’s face.

Castiel raises his eyebrow at Dean, but then he smirks and looks up. “Okay. Here goes. _De janvier 1922 à août 1923 a vécu, au troisième étage de cet immeuble, avec Hadley, son épouse, l'écrivain américain… Le quartier, qu'il aimait par-dessus tout, fur le véritable lieu de naissance de son oeuvre et du style qui la caractérise…*_ ” 

Soon enough, Dean is staring at Castiel’s mouth intently. With every French word Cas pronounces, he wants to inch close and closer to capture those lips in another kiss. He watches Castiel’s mouth wrap around the words like cotton, smoothing them and making them into a melody that’s pouring into Dean’s ears with ease.

They only kissed once, back by the Seine, but Dean wants to taste that mouth right now; he’d risk sacrificing one of those words, interrupting the sound. He can feel himself growing hot, and when Castiel pronounces Hemingway’s name in a French accent, he’s completely lost.

“So, did that tell you anything?” Castiel asks after he’s finished, and it takes Dean a minute before he’s able to respond.

“Now translate it,” he asks quietly, but he’s not that interested. He knows that the translated version won’t carry the magic the French original had – even though Castiel’s lips curling around any words is more than seductive and strangely attractive.

“Wow,” Dean comments after Cas is done, but to be honest, he’s really addressing the ungodly weapon that Castiel’s lips are. When his cheeks turn bright red, he looks back up at the plate, hoping Cas won’t notice.

“I’m glad you like it,” Cas says, “Do you want to check out the James Joyce one? It’s only a couple houses back.”

“Nah, I’m good,” Dean shakes his head, and running his hand through his hair, he takes a peak at Castiel’s profile. “I’m getting kinda hungry, actually,” he acclaims and smiles when Cas nods. “Thanks for taking me here, though. Pretty amazing stuff.”

It brings out a smile on Castiel’s face, breaking out from a slight concerned frown. Dean realizes Castiel’s fingers are still wrapped around his wrist, and if he knew how, he would make him tighten the grip.

Not even fifteen minutes later (although they did have to stop at some of the shops that rue Mouffetard offers – the fish, and the sweets, and the fruits; it’s really a walk like no other and Dean takes a few pictures, one of them capturing Cas walking down the street with his head down), they arrive at a little, cozy looking restaurant.

For a moment, it seems like there’s no space for two more people, as it is packed just like seemingly every restaurant in this city, but a waiter takes them to the far corner of the room and sits them down, handing them menus.

Dean asks Cas to order food for him, “but don’t tell me what it is, I want to be surprised”, since that method has proven to be good, and then orders beer himself. Castiel gives him a look, but Dean has never been the guy to drink wine just because it’s appropriate or because it’s Paris.

They spend the evening chatting endlessly about Dean’s job, his brother, and his boss. It feels like they’ve talked about this a couple of times now, but somehow, there are still more things to tell, more little sins to confess, more memories to recall and share.

Dean carefully avoids mentioning Castiel’s family, remembering how bitter he sounded when he talked about them at the Trocadero café after being prompted, and Cas never brings them up, either. It seems like the evening is too pleasant to be ruined by nothing but ugly memories. Their hands touch every once in a while – when Dean reaches for the salt, and then, after two beers, when Cas simply rests his palm on tops of Dean’s. It’s nice. 

The food Castiel orders is not Dean’s favorite; Castiel steals a few forkfuls of the sweet potatoes, though, and they both shrug it off. The evening settles around them, rests a blanket of comfortable closeness over them, tucks them in. 

They don’t really discuss it, but once they walk out of the restaurant, Castiel’s fingers wrap around Dean’s and Dean doesn’t flinch away. He just smiles to himself, the gesture small, to be kept a secret.

They go to a different Metro station, and as they descend the stairs, Castiel murmurs, “Do you want to see my apartment?”

And Dean, holding his breath and without hesitation, says, “Yes.”

Turns out, Castiel doesn’t live that far away. They only spend a few minutes in the Metro (which is still enough for an old man with an accordion and dark glasses over his blind eyes to deliver a surprisingly breathtaking version of _My Heart Will Go On_ , Dean leaning against the door, amazed) and then they’re out in the fresh air. It’s nearing half past ten in the evening, but the darkness outside seems bright in Dean’s eyes, young and wide and full of possibilities. 

The walk to Cas’ apartment is almost as long as the metro ride, but Dean doesn’t mind. He’s not tired – not in the least. He’s buzzing with energy, trying to figure out if this invitation means what Dean thinks it means.

“Here,” Castiel breaks the silence when they finally get to a building that does not in any way look like your typical American apartment building; if there is such a thing as typical American apartment buildings. It’s very well possible Dean thinks this one is different just because it represents a good chunk of Cas’ life. 

Castiel fishes out a key, letting them in. They keep on exchanging smiles and gestures instead of words, and Dean wonders how much they are able to say without talking. They probably talked about lifetimes and universes and galaxies on their way here, all the silent words curled up where their hands touched.

They enter Cas’ apartment and in that exact second, the phone starts ringing. 

Castiel giggles and holds up a finger – just give me a sec – and goes to pick up. 

Dean looks around while Castiel is on the phone, but he stays alert, listening; but of course Castiel speaks in French.

“Oui,” Cas says as Dean’s eyes land on a tiny replica of Rodin’s the Thinker on the shelf. “ _Non je ne travaille pas demain, mais Max a un poste._ **” Dean’s eyes wander across the walls of the hallway, landing on a framed picture of Edith Piaf. He wonders how hard Cas had to try to make himself believe he was a true Parisian. How difficult it must have been for an eighteen year old Castiel to reinvent himself completely. “ _D'accord, pas de problème. Salut._ ***”

Castiel reappears in the hallway with a shy smile. “It was my boss, Margaux. Nothing important,” he tells Dean and then takes his hand.

Castiel doesn’t ask whether Dean wants something to drink or whether he would like a grand tour of this tiny apartment. 

He goes straight for Dean’s lips.

It takes him by surprise and he remembers Balthazar’s, “French men are handsome and they like their fun.” Cas is theoretically not a French man, but he’s lived here long enough for Dean to overlook that; handsome enough to make up for it, if you will.

And it’s not like Dean wants to pull away. It’s not like he said yes to the invitation because he wanted to sip on tea while discussing third world problems. He said yes because he wanted Cas’ hands and lips and his hot breath hitting Dean’s wet lower lip. And that is exactly what he’s getting.

Castiel maneuvers them so that they end up right in this bedroom. Dean’s pushed onto the bed within seconds, Castiel straddling his hips.

“Is this okay?” he asks in a tiny, breathy voice, as if he only now registered what was happening. As if it wasn’t Castiel’s hand halfway up Dean’s Henley shirt.

Dean nods, but Castiel isn’t really paying attention, his eyes hypnotized by Dean’s parted lips.

“Yes,” Dean breathes out in the end, when he realizes that Cas is still waiting for an answer in his trance. “More than okay.”

Castiel’s lips stretch in a smile and he nods, his hand continuing its way up Dean’s shirt. Dean shivers when Castiel’s fingers brush against his nipples, and he gives in to it, leans into Cas, feels himself melting underneath his touch.

He almost subconsciously spreads his legs and Cas nestles between them, leaning over Dean. Both clothed, Dean can feel the warmth radiating off their bodies anyway. He exhales, his hand wrapping around Cas’ neck and pulling him closer, closer, closer.

And yet it is not close enough. 

Dean feels his clothes burning his body – he desperately wants to get rid of them and press his chest against Cas; to feel Cas’ heartbeat against his ribcage and to match his own heart’s frantic pace to it and make another melody.

He hums when their lips meet again. They kiss absent-mindedly, all their senses focused on touching. Dean’s fingers brush against Cas’ cheekbones and then retreat back to his neck, and Cas’ hands, well, they are everywhere. One second Dean feels them rubbing his sides, and the next they’re sliding underneath him, tips of Castiel’s fingers playfully disappearing under the hem of his jeans.

Dean’s dick hardens a few minutes into it and when Cas bites down on his wet lip, his lungs send a moan up his throat. Castiel whimpers when he hears it.

“I don’t like this anymore,” Castiel comments and for a second, it leaves Dean confused and to be honest, scared. 

But then he tugs at Dean’s shirt and Dean laughs, relieved. They both undress rather quickly; the seconds that pass, instead of stretching on to prolong the moment, squeeze into tiny glimpses of time, and soon, they are both naked and pressed against each other, just as Dean wanted to, except better.

Cas rolls away and rummages in his nightstand, looking for condoms and lube, but Dean can’t stay away. Still wordless, he shuffles on the bed so he’s closer to him, and he presses his lips against Cas’ shoulder, a few inches above his elbow, sucking on the skin.

“That’s a weird place to leave a hickey,” Castiel giggles and quickly moves on top of Dean, where he lets him suck on his collarbone instead.

Dean loves leaving marks; Castiel loves being the one who this is done to. He bites down on his lip and breathes out in satisfaction when Dean pulls away and runs his tongue across the blossoming bruise.

Dean loses his sense of reality after that. This time, it’s his body taking control and making him lose his mind. 

Castiel fits between Dean’s legs perfectly, even as he moves downwards and closes his mouth around Dean’s dick. Dean gasps, but before he can comment on it or even get used to the overwhelming sensation, Castiel’s lubed fingers brush against his entrance teasingly, and then he goes for it; another gasp and then, feeling like he’s being too easy, thrusting his hips forward.

Momentarily, Dean feels like he doesn’t deserve this. 

But then his mind tells him, _don’t be an idiot, Winchester_ , and so he willingly decides to not be an idiot and to enjoy everything Cas is offering, hoping he will be able to offer something back.

Castiel can do miracles with his fingers, as Dean soon finds out. He’s writhing on the bed within minutes, thrusting up to Castiel’s mouth, digging his fingers into the sheets, leaving them wrinkled and wet.

“C’mon,” Dean moans with his back arched. At this point, he’s begging for an orgasm, already feeling it starting to build up in him.

But then Castiel’s mouth and fingers disappear and Dean lets out a dissatisfied groan – only to realize they’re about to be replaced with something even better.

Castiel enters him slowly, gently, as if Dean was made of porcelain and Cas was afraid of breaking him if he treated him too roughly. But it’s comfortable; if love could be described only by intimacy and gentleness, Dean knows this would be it. Castiel is so careful, always kissing Dean – on the mouth, on his chin, wherever his mouth can reach -- always touching him, always appreciating him.

Cas’ dick fills Dean up to the top and when he’s all the way in, Dean exhales and his eyes flutter close.

“Look at me,” Castiel says, and it might as well be a command, even though uttered quietly. Dean doesn’t dare to disobey, though. He doesn’t want to.

He opens his eyes as Cas starts to rock their bodies together, one thrust at a time. Dean’s hands find their own way around Cas’ neck, and his legs wrap around Cas’ waist almost as if consequentially. His ankles lock, not letting Cas out, only pushing him closer.

“C’mon, fuck me good,” Dean whispers, never breaking eye contact, and Castiel purses his lips. 

His pace quickens almost right away, pinning Dean to the mattress, but somehow, it’s not enough. Castiel’s dick brushes against Dean’s prostate, but it is not enough. Dean feels like he could die right here and now and it would all be good, but in order to do that, he needs more. He whines in desperation, moving his body to meet Cas’ -- but it is not enough.

Dean’s fingers dig into Castiel’s skin, and before Dean knows it – before he can even think about where the sudden strength is coming from, because he has been weakened by Castiel and what he’s doing to him – he rolls them over.

Castiel’s dick is still inside of him and Dean sits down on it, lets it go deeper. He breathes out, the moan stuck in his throat. He holds himself up on Castiel’s chest, and Castiel’s hands grip Dean’s hips, their roles reversed, Castiel now holding Dean in place, not letting him go.

Dean clenches his ass cheeks and moans loud and low now, wrapping himself around Cas like he never wants to let go. He doesn’t. He carefully moves his hips in circles, closes his eyes for the first time since Castiel told him not to, and moves upwards.

When he doesn’t sit back down, Castiel understands. With his fingers buried deep into Dean’s skin, almost uncomfortable if only it didn’t feel so good, he thrusts up into Dean in quick, deep thrusts. 

Dean doesn’t know what’s keeping him upright, what’s making him stay alive and not explode and collapse. He holds on to Cas like he’s a life boat that could carry him for miles and miles and get him to safety. 

Dean leans closer, hovering just inches away from Castiel’s face, his ass still up, Cas still going. His eyes are still closed, but he can feel Castiel’s shallow, uneven hot breath on his face, and he breathes the stained air in, makes it settle in his lungs forever, as some sort of sick memorabilia to always remember this moment.

“Fuck, Cas,” slips out of his mouth in a moan, and he throws his head back, Castiel’s hand running down Dean’s sweaty throat, across his chest, and then down to his crotch.

Dean feels like screaming when Castiel’s hand wraps around his dick, his thumb spreading the pre-come around, jerking Dean’s cock fast and good.

Dean feels like he’s just run a marathon, and it’s been too much to handle. 

“’m so close,” he squeezes out in between quick sharp inhales and Cas listens, thrusts into Dean quicker.

“Come on, no, wait for me,” Castiel pants, but Dean is long gone.

He comes all over Cas’ chest, staining it, and Cas has to hold still for a few moments as Dean’s ass clenches and unclenches a few times in a row, accompanied by tiny, choked sounds hiding at the back of Dean’s tight throat, his head thrown back. 

Dean is completely out of breath, his vision blurry, but before his breath can go back to normal, Castiel is taking his momentarily limp body, throwing them around and, his dick still in Dean’s ass, making him lie back on his back.

Cas only gives him seconds before he starts moving again.

Dean’s legs spread and his dick still throbbing from the orgasm, he whimpers when Castiel thrusts into him once again. Dean moves on the bed, the sweat stained wet sheets clinging to his back, and he whimpers, he moans quietly. 

“Cas,” he breathes out, his whole body almost shaking from Cas being just too much. 

“Please,” Castiel begs desperately, holding himself up on his hands, going back for more to Dean’s spent body. “C’mon, just – just a second –”

Dean places one hand on Cas’ back, the other running all the way down to his ass, and he pushes him closer even though it’s too much and Dean’s sure he’s going to feel it for days. He pushes Cas closer, telling him to come, to come right now.

It only takes a few more thrusts for Cas to do so, and then he’s lying right next to Dean, his hand across Dean’s chest. He’s only got the energy left to take off the condom and throw it in the general direction of his trashcan.

Long minutes pass before any of them speaks. And when they do, it’s Cas, saying, “I don’t ever want to go back to the US, Dean.”

Dean pretends he’s already asleep.

 

It takes Dean hours to _actually_ fall asleep, though. Cas has long since started snoring quietly and Dean’s not even close to at least napping.

His head is a mess. 

What Cas said before – the thing about not wanting to go back to the US – means too many things all at the same time, that alone being astounding in itself. 

It means that what happened between them was more than just a one night stand, because somehow, admitting to having thought about going together means just that. It means that it might not have been enough to make Cas change his mind, though. And it also makes Dean realize one thing – that even without saying it, he wants Cas to go back to the US with him. Because the few days they have left – that’s not enough. Something has shifted in Dean; the change creeping up on him quietly, sudden but determined to make Dean want this.

It’s strange, how you can go from bitter to happy to confused in such a short amount of time, second by second, bit by bit. As Dean tosses in Castiel’s bed, careful not to wake the man beside him, he remembers his own discomfort when he arrived at this city, and he distinctly recalls the moment he laid eyes on Cas and was completely lost, somehow, from the very first moment. Fixed on him; a sudden, unfamiliar constant in Dean’s disorganized life.

Now Castiel himself might be lost to him, in just a few days. Because the US is too painful for Cas. And who is Dean to change that? How can you replace someone’s shitty past just by letting them fuck you? Has the world ever worked like that? No, no, it never has. And it won’t start just because Dean wills it to change.

Dean’s fingers clench around Cas’ bed sheets, bringing them up to Dean’s nose. He smells mint and lemon and he rolls onto his side, breathing the smell in, hoping it will get stuck in his head. He can see himself walking down a street in grand old New York, smelling lemon from that pastry shop there, and remembering this exact moment.

Even with his back to Cas, it’s not easier to think. 

He furiously chews down on his lip, abusing it with no mercy, very much aware of how Cas’ lips licked the same spots moments ago.

Part of him – the boy in him, maybe – wants to believe that he’s so charmed and in too deep because this is the opposite from how he got together with basically all his past boyfriends or girlfriends. With all of them, time seemed to stretch on; weeks and weeks of fragile friendship, slowly turning into hook ups, slipping – tripping, even -- into relationships. It was like that even with Michael, the most important of them all so far.

The other Dean, though, the Dean that’s here now, so aware of mint mixed with lemon, so aware of Castiel still and sleeping next to him, that Dean understands this is not just being enchanted by the unknown. 

This is more, and this Dean cautiously understands and accepts it, somehow. 

Restless, Dean turns around again, rolls onto his other side, staring at Castiel’s back; running his eyes over his messy dark hair. He wants to tug at them, playful, _Hey Cas, let’s go to the US_ , or _Hey Cas, how ‘bout I stay here?_

They don’t sound right in his head – he can’t imagine rolling them over his tongue and out of his mouth.

So yes; it’s messy in Dean’s head, messier than usual, before he finally falls asleep. He does so being sure of two things: one, he would never push Cas into doing something he doesn’t feel comfortable doing, and two, that doesn’t change one thing about the fact that he desperately wants to.

He wakes up a few hours later to Castiel staring at him from his side of the bed, propped up on one elbow, the only thing missing being rays of sunshine playing with his hair. The dark curtains drawn over the windows, though, keep them from creeping in.

“Mornin’,” Dean mumbles and rubs his eyes, licking his lips and tasting the awful dull taste of sleep, glued to the rooftop of his mouth.

Castiel shuffles closer to him immediately, placing an idle kiss on Dean’s shoulder. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”

“Is that so?” Dean asks with a grin, rolling onto his side.

Castiel hums in response and leans closer, kissing the sleep away from Dean’s lips. “Have you ever heard that morning sex is basically the healthiest thing in the world?” he suggests innocently, and Dean snorts.

They kiss lazily for a few more minutes, hands wandering and exploring, skin warm, both aware that if they want to do anything at all, peeing will need to happen first anyway. And there’s no rush.

After a few moments, Dean pulls away, though, and catches Cas’ hand in his.

“Listen, Cas,” he says and his eyes drop to the bed sheets, as if examining them intently. “I heard you last night. What you said about the US.”

“Oh,” Castiel nods, his face falling a bit, “I thought you were asleep.”

He seems to be disappointed – saying something not expecting having to deal with the consequences is easy.

“Yeah, not really.” Dean looks up. “Look, I’m not going to make you come with me. If I made that impression on you – ”

“Dean, it’s okay,” Castiel cuts him off, rubbing his thumb over the back of Dean’s hand, counting his knuckles. “Last night was nice. The past few days have been nice. So nice. I found myself thinking that maybe I should – that maybe I should try and go back with you, if you were interested. But I don’t think I could.”

Dean’s cheeks redden when he realizes that what Cas is telling him is some sort of hidden love confession; and one he could return, maybe reckless, but oh so very true after all the thinking he did the night before. “I wanted you to, you know. Without even realizing it, really.”

“I don’t think I can do it right now. Even though I want to. I’m scared I would be miserable.”

“Is this because of your family?” Dean suggests quietly, regretting asking right away. He suddenly wishes the curtains would open, let some of the light in.

Castiel sighs. “Partly, yes. I told you my father was abusive, but – but he got violent after I came out, and I – I don’t want to talk about it. I worked so hard to build a home here, and to accept myself, and I’m just so scared it would collapse if I came back. So worried all the memories would come back, too. I’m not ready.”

Dean nods, not sure what to say. A sudden wave of sadness washes over him. It’s not the image of them parting ways at the airport at some point; that will be difficult to deal with later. It’s the immediate feeling of bitterness, fear that radiates off of Cas like poisonous gas. 

He wants to help, wants to fix this somehow. Considering he doesn’t even know what to say, that’s probably a lost cause.

“I’m here now, we both are,” he says in the end, knowing that that fixes just about nothing.

“Could you check out of your hotel and just stay here?” Castiel suggests in a small voice. “I want to spend more time with you, if that’s okay. Tag along when you go taking pictures,” he smiles, “if my boss lets me.”

Dean cuddles close to Cas, forcing a kiss onto his lips, trying to leave a taste of how happy he is for now, how much he wants to forget about later, how much their acceptance of this means to him. “You can bet that that’s exactly what’s gonna happen.”

 

They spend the next few days in a sort of bubble, where reality doesn’t really exist. Dean sometimes can’t believe he’s been able to let himself and his prejudice go, that he’s been able to simply enjoy himself and to enjoy Cas, to enjoy the food, the city, the bright and the dark streets, the people bumping into him.

They go back to some of the spots Dean liked – like the Seine, where he takes a few pictures and they kiss again and again, sealing the deal; or the Luxemburg gardens, yes, even those; and rue Mouffetard, where they buy roasted chicken one evening and then sit in the park nearby and eat it together, fingers greasy, but laughing happily.

It’s there where they decide to go for a long distance relationship after their few days here are over (which is terrifyingly soon). It seems appropriate; surrounded by Parisians and a few tourists who decided to venture beyond the usual sightseeing schedule, they feel both alone and not alone at all.

It’s cloudy today, but the air is warm enough for them to occupy one bench for hours on end.

Dean is just cleaning his hands with a napkin, the taste of the delicious chicken still in his mouth, when Cas speaks up.

“How do you feel about long distance relationships?” he asks quietly, and Dean’s eyes shoot up.

For a second, he stares at Cas like he doesn’t understand him, stopping mid-movement, with the napkin curled around his fingers.

But then his face almost subconsciously stretches in a genuine, wide smile. The question has been kicking around in his brain for a while now, but he never got courageous enough to straight up ask and put himself and his feelings out there, risking rejection. 

“Yes,” he says, breathless, not aware of any of the beats his heart skips as it tries to catch up on Dean’s excitement and anticipation. “That’s how I feel ‘bout that. Yes.”

They kiss quickly, both overwhelmed. “We’re gonna make it work,” Cas mumbles into Dean’s mouth, and Dean can only nod briefly.

He’s not sure what he’s doing – this is not him. With his past relationships, it took him ages to be ready for commitment if he’s being honest with himself. It wasn’t unconscious, the way he always slipped from friendship to relationship; it was easier that way, he was more willing to ease into it. And even that took months. And now? All it took was a few days spent near Cas, and Dean knows. He simply knows that this is where he’s supposed to be, and the least he can do is try to keep it up.

The butterflies in his stomach go crazy when they pull apart and stare at each other with admiration and surprise – _this is my person_ written all over their faces. 

Dean decides that sometimes, you can wait for your special someone for years, and it can be difficult to find them. You might waste years beside someone else, not really suffering, but not blossoming either; just content in your routine. But then, when you find them – in Paris or London or on the bus you take to work – it’s there and you can’t unsee it. And then it’s terribly easy to not let go, at least at first. It’s so easy to let them take you.

 _We’re going to make it work_ , plays in Dean’s mind in determination, and with his lips against Cas’, body tense in trying to get as close as possible, he does believe that. He doesn’t doubt it for a second, because somehow, Cas’ freedom and love are enough; are able to free Dean himself.

 

The next day, Dean reluctantly calls Sam while at Cas’ apartment after a day out, waiting for Castiel to get back from work. He sits up on the sofa in Castiel’s packed flat, a large picture of Charlie Chaplin staring at him from the wall opposite him, when he dials Sam’s number.

He stares at the mint green wallpaper with small white flowers on it while he waits for Sam to pick up, trying to distract himself thinking about whether Cas chose that or not.

Sam has heard about Cas alright; Dean couldn’t hold back and not mention him even if he wanted to. He’s been keeping Sam updated, although mostly on his progress with the article. They had one serious phone call about this so far; the morning Dean went to check out of his hotel. 

Sam wasn’t thrilled, exactly, which made Dean grumpy, but – it’s not like he should have expected otherwise. It’s understandable that Sam is worried; he would be, too, if his brother went overseas and got himself a girl that suddenly got serious over the span of only a few days.

He doesn’t expect a cheery reaction this time around, too, and he doesn’t get one either.

“I mean, Dean, that’s fast, even for me,” is Sam’s first reaction upon Dean mentioning a long distance relationship, but Dean is able to shake it off. He knows now, he’s always known, really, that Sam only wants what’s best for him.

“I don’t know, Sam,” he says, “Sometimes you just know, you know?” he muses, and it makes Sam snort. 

“You seem to be pretty sure about him,” he admits, almost unwillingly.

“I am,” Dean nods, breathing in the smell of lemon and mint, now so familiar to him, pleasantly lingering even on his clothes. 

The fact itself – that he is so sure about Castiel and about whatever it is they have – doesn’t come as a surprise, but it makes his breath hitch at the back of his throat anyway, stuck momentarily. 

“Look, I’m not saying I’m not worried or that I don’t think you’re moving too fast,” Sam says, and Dean can see him gesticulating with his arms, his eyebrows slightly raised as he’s trying to explain himself, “But if you promise me to be careful – if you’re so sure, I guess I gotta trust you on this.”

It’s an indirect way of asking, _are you stupid enough to make this affection into a bigger thing? If so, I’m with you_. 

“Jeez, thanks for the permission, mom,” Dean rolls his eyes, making his brother laugh.

They’re all good from there, and Sam even wishes him good luck before Dean ends the phone call, just as he hears the door open and Cas slips into the apartment, a small, tired small on his face.

“Hey.” Dean smiles, tossing his phone on the small vintage table standing proud and with one wonky leg in the middle of the room. “Long day at work?”

Cas shakes off his sweater, wiping away the sweat gathered on his neck, and he drags his feet across the hallway that’s connected to the living room. He flops down next to Dean, immediately leaning his head against his shoulder. “The longest,” he complains.

Dean gently places his hand on Castiel’s thigh in silent compassion.

“I just talked to Sam,” he informs him, changing the subject. “I think he finally accepted that we’re a thing.”

“I’m glad,” Castiel murmurs and Dean can feel him press a quick kiss against his neck. 

It feels like old couple business – they both know why it’s a good thing that Sam is okay with them; they both know it could have gone differently. They seem to have accepted the flaws of whatever it is that they have, and this time, slipping into it isn’t problematic. It doesn’t feel like a routine, and even though Dean is a bit worried (during quiet nights when he can’t fall asleep, which seems to be the only repetitive thing in his life these days) that this will all go away once he’s back in New York and they’ll need to hold up to their deal, it feels amazing. This thought, this one single thought, feels so insignificant and inadequate Dean doesn’t have trouble shooing it away.

His fingers on Cas’ thigh start moving on their own accord, without Dean thinking about it. Soon, they are rubbing soothing circles into Cas’ skin through the fabric of his dark blue pants, and Dean would never realize how good it could feel if it wasn’t for Cas’ sudden groan, held back low in his throat, reluctantly trying to escape in its loud glory.

Castiel’s lips are back at Dean’s neck, warm but dry, softly pressing against the skin there.

Dean is surprised, taken a back momentarily when he feels Castiel’s hand take its rightful place on Dean’s thigh, close to his crotch, mirroring what Dean has been doing with his own hand to Cas.

“I thought you had a long day,” he murmurs, but his eyes have fluttered close seconds ago, accepting of what’s happening. He leans into the touch, even, while working his fingers up Cas’ thigh.

“So I need to relax now,” Castiel explains, his hot breath hitting Dean’s neck, making him shiver.

Dean lets out a satisfied hum, exposing his neck for Cas to kiss, his way of asking for more. Castiel obliges; they might have been together for only days, but he knows very well what it means when Dean moves, knows exactly what he’s asking for.

His palms covering Dean’s crotch, working on the slowly growing bulge, his tongue pokes out, wetting Dean’s skin, licking over the goosebumps.

“Shit,” Dean swears under his breath and opens his eyes reluctantly, turning to face Cas. He’s met with an amused expression on the man’s face; content in watching Dean as he works Cas’ pants open with both his hands. The expression is wiped away only when Dean brings his fingers up to his mouth, licks at them, one after another, and then stuffs them down Castiel’s underwear.

When skin meets skin, Castiel’s breath cuts short and his lips part; too tempting an invitation to not bury Dean’s tongue in the hot cavern of his mouth.

Castiel’s fingers dig into Dean’s thigh when Dean’s palm covers his erection, breathing out, his eyes almost closing if only he didn’t love eye contact during moments like this so much.

It takes Castiel a bit to recollect himself – at least a little – before he can awkwardly, with his left hand underneath Dean’s like a snake, unbutton Dean’s pants.

Dean now fully understands how good it feels – understands why Cas’ breath hitched.

They are pressed side to side, the moon-shaped lamp hanging from the ceiling casting light shadows on their faces. Their hands crossed, both reaching out to the other, holding on. Cas’ elbow is digging into Dean’s tummy with every move, but Dean doesn’t mind; no, he cherishes the occasional pain, enjoys it as Castiel’s hand works his cock. 

They try to kiss at one point, but can’t figure out how to do it without breaking their necks, without stopping their hands; and they do not want to do that.

Dean smiles into the failure of a kiss, looks up at Cas with an expression that clearly says, _it is good enough as it is_ , and sinks down on the sofa, spreading his legs more for better access. He wishes they would have more space, wishes he would have it in him to stop and pick Cas up and carry him to the bedroom where they could roll around and have each other. But a wish is only that -- a wish.

Little space or not, Cas’ elbow digging in or not, this is, after all, perfect.

Perfectly intimate in the mild light of the lamp, perfectly close to feel each other constantly, arm against arm, tired wrist rubbing against pubic hair.

Sweat breaks out on Dean’s forehead, the humid air of the room suddenly getting to him, as he feels his orgasm approach, building bit by bit in the pit of his stomach.

Castiel beside him whines, his hips bucking up. “Please don’t stop,” he mumbles, and Dean feels ashamed, small when he realizes his own pleasure has distracted him. He starts working Cas’ cock again, up and down in a steady as quick a pace as the lack of space allows him.

Their movements soon become jerky; both distracted every two seconds, Dean’s head now leaning against the sofa. He can feel Cas’ eyes on him, though; glad he doesn’t order Dean to look at him this time, because he wouldn’t be able to.

This feels like being packed in the back of his car when he was seventeen, his first ever boyfriend’s hand stuffed down his pants; comparably sweaty, and urgent, and needy.

“Cas,” he moans as his legs give out, stretching forward. Dean’s back is now pressed against the cushions, his free hand gripping the edge of the couch. His pace on Cas’ dick is even with his short, uneven breaths, panting his way to his orgasm.

Castiel’s response is just a quiet whine, one Dean recognizes as _I’m close_ , the sound now familiar to his ears; he’s heard it multiple times, with Cas’ dick thrusting into him frantically, with Cas’ hand in Dean’s hair during a blowjob, in the shower when Cas pressed Dean against the wall, not an inch separating them, rubbing off against Dean’s ass.

It’s hard to tell whether they come together or whether it is just an illusion their blurred minds lead them to believe, but it becomes too much for the both of them at roughly the same time.

Dean, distantly, feels Castiel move against his palm for a few more seconds, but he’s far too gone, busy staining his favorite underwear in come, to be fully aware. His toes curl in his socks, digging into the carpet, and Castiel’s body beside him jerks in his orgasm with force that moves the couch an inch back. 

Still panting, his heart still a wild animal pounding against the wall of his ribcage, Dean leans back, spent. When he takes his hand out of Castiel’s underwear, the air in the room suddenly seems cool as it hits his wet palm – both from sweat and come. 

Stained and filthy, he simply lays it on top of his leg, feeling the hurt in his elbow. Castiel pulls his hand away, eventually, just presses himself even more against Dean.

“Shower?” he suggests after a while, his blue eyes staring up at Dean from his shoulder where he’s been resting his head again. “We could go out then.”

Dean simply nods, suddenly at a loss for words – for the right words, that is. He does have an alternate thing he could say instead of _yes_ , or instead of giving a smile.

 _I’m going to miss this_ , he wants to say, but he doesn’t dare to. 

 

The only other person Dean interacts with apart from Cas and the occasional phone call with Sam is Max, the girl who works with Cas; or, rather, Cas’ best friend as Dean finds out. 

All three of them hang out one evening, having dinner at a restaurant that, according to Max, serves the best tomato soup and the most delicious pasta in Paris, and Dean finds his way around her. 

He is cautious around her at first, of course; doesn’t really know whether it’s because she gets to hang out with Castiel every day and won’t leave Paris with Dean, will stay right here, or if it’s because she’s a stranger. Either way, by the time the evening is over, he likes her and secretly tells Cas that he has good taste in friends.

The other time, after their evening hang out, he’s basically alone with her; Cas has to work that day so Dean hangs around the café. They both stop by when they can to chat, and at one point, Max sits down with him during lunch break – it’s amazing to see her, still in the café uniform, finally having a minute to herself while the place squeezes around more and more people as the day slips into afternoon hours.

She brings crème brulee to Dean’s table in the farther corner of the place, and a bowl full of baby carrots for herself, sighing as she sits down.

“Working at this place is exhausting,” she mumbles, stretching her legs beneath the table. “It used to be a quiet place, but then, boom. Some internet star must have rambled about the movie and ever since then, it’s crowded all the fucking time.” 

She laughs, but Dean can tell she misses the quiet. Biting on one of the carrots, she looks around as if trying to recall what it was like before the staff tripped over the customers’ feet wherever they moved.

“Cas talked about you right the first time you were here,” she continues, picking up another one of the carrots and making it disappear in her mouth.

Dean can feel heat travelling up his neck and spreading around his cheeks without warning. He’s not sure what the proper reaction would be, so he stares at the giant poster of Audrey Tatou’s face he dislikes and murmurs, “Did he?”

“Yeah,” she nods, “Hot American guy this and that. But honestly, you better be a decent guy.”

“Or?”

“Or I’ll kick you in the nuts, and I’m pretty good at that.” She winks at him, and Dean can’t help but laugh, especially because it sounds just perfect in his ears, her French accent and all that. It’s amazing; all the more because he believes it to be completely true. Max, with her attitude, seems just like the person who would kick him in the nuts if he mistreated her or Cas. It occurs to him, then, that whenever they met after Cas moved to Paris, Max has probably been a better sibling to him that his real ones. 

Dean buries his spoon in the pudding and as he brings it up to his mouth, trying to hide that he’s got respect for her, he says, “Well, I like him a lot.”

“I just hope you can work it out,” she notes. “I mean, the statistical probability of a long distance relationship lasting more than two months? Not good.”

Dean shrugs, eyes fixed on the bowl in front of him. But in reality, it upsets him; in reality, his fingers grip the spoon he’s holding, tense. 

He knows very well that that statistic doesn’t seem to be in their favor. Chewing on the dessert, his teeth clicking against each other in vain, swallowing the sweetness, he does his best to swallow down the doubts as well. It hasn’t been all that easy doing that in the past few days.

“I know,” he mutters, finally looking up at her. “But he doesn’t want to go the US and I don’t want to stay in Paris right now. And I mean, that’s not surprising. We’ve been together for, uh, what, a week? And we met not even two weeks ago. It wouldn’t make sense for either of us to change our entire lives.”

Max hums. “Or maybe that’s just what you two are telling yourselves,” she says, biting into another carrot. “Maybe that’s exactly what you need to do, you know. _I_ know I probably wouldn’t do it, but Cas is different. You’re different, from what I can tell.” 

Dean wants to argue. Wants to tell her that they are not as different as she might think – and all couples that thought they _were_ different ended up throwing their love, affection, anything and everything into the nearest trashcan.

There’s something else bugging him, though, something that shuts him up, too. _That’s what you’re telling yourselves._

But the truth is, they’re not talking about it at all. It’s taboo. Ever since they agreed on going for a long distance relationship, they haven’t mentioned it. They moved in together like high school sweethearts treating it accordingly, not once mentioning that Dean will be gone in just a few days.

They never address the fact that texts will replace their morning kisses, Skype calls will replace their conversations over cheap wine, dirty midnight calls will replace the sex. In just a short few days.

Both of them perhaps want to bring it up at times, but neither of them does; always scared, always worried it might ruin the moment, and they don’t have many of those left. 

For the first time, this successfully plants a seed of doubt in Dean’s mind.

“We’re not that different,” he says instead, stubbornly, the spoon clinking against the bowl when he goes to get more. “We’re just trying to make it work, is all.”

Max tilts her head to the side, as if she knew something that Dean didn’t, but before she can let him in on the secret, her eyes dart away to the clock on the wall behind Dean and she murmurs, “Fuck, lunch break is over.” She winks at him, and since her ceramic bowl is now mostly empty – just like her lunch break is over – she gets up to go back to work.

Dean sighs and returns back to his food, now accompanied by thoughts he’d rather send away, only he doesn’t know how.

Catching a glimpse of Cas here and there, in the same uniform Max was wearing, is suddenly a reminder that this soon will be over; no more late evening walks through Paris, no more picture taking at random empty squares that hold nearly empty churches people don’t care about.

 

Dean’s last full day in Paris creeps up on them very quietly. They never start talking about it, and so the last day slips into Cas’ apartment with dawn almost unnoticed at first. 

It delivers itself as a bitter present, wrapped in sun and the last remaining bits of freedom that have gathered themselves over the past two weeks.

Dean wakes up around six in the morning, as if he felt it deep in his bones that his time here was coming to an end and he needed to enjoy it. However, waking up on this day is not all that enjoyable. Even looking at his things, scattered around Cas’ apartment, somehow making it more alive – definitely more so than the random vintage pictures and furniture – is sorrowful. 

It puts a very clear thought in Dean’s head -- that he is going to have to pick them up, stuff them into his suitcase.

Getting out of the bed seven minutes past six, blissfully naked, he ignores all the items that belong to him. 

While peeing, Dean rubs his eyes tiredly, considering if he should go back to sleep. He catches a glimpse of his face on his way out of Cas’ bathroom, expecting to see a tired face with bags under his eyes; but despite the early hours, his expression breathes with life.

He resists the urge to touch the features of his own face, trace his fingers down his jawline, to see if it’s real at all. He turns off the light and steps out of the room, the old wooden floor creaking beneath his bare feet.

Still half-hidden in the small corner of his mind that is sleepy enough to not be aware of any consequences of what has been happening, he is met with Castiel’s wide open eyes staring at him from the bed.

“Is there something wrong?” he inquires, but the sleep is still caught in the corners of his eyes, making him unable to look concerned.

“I just had to pee, Cas,” Dean whispers, no reason to be so quiet whatsoever. 

He could walk around the bed and slip beneath the sheets on the side that has temporarily become his, but he forces himself into the small space right next to Cas, his back nearly over the edge of the bed until Cas shuffles and they both lie safely on the bed, pressed against each other.

Dean can feel the spot Cas has warmed with his head under his cheek, the pillow almost flat – but the _warmth_ , it keeps him there.

Cas’ eyes flutter close almost immediately, his palms flat again Dean’s chest. Before he dozes off back to sleep, Dean can hear him sigh – a surprisingly heavy, stuffed sound that echoes through the room of Dean’s mind. He’s pretty sure it’s the _please don’t wake me up to our second to last morning together yet_.

And Dean wouldn’t. 

He manages to fall asleep, but his mind wakes him up around half past seven again. This time, he gives in to the restlessness pounding through his body, and Cas must feel his distress, too, because he wakes up minutes later, wide awake even with his face nuzzled against Dean’s scruffy neck.

They bump hips when they shuffle on their lazy feet to the bathroom, Dean trying to shave and Cas trying to brush his teeth. They smile at each other’s reflection, both taken aback by the sudden quiet between them, but both relishing in it without shame. One might call it the calm before the storm, but the metaphorical sky over them is cloudless, so just for this one more day, it’s easy to ignore the tiny weather man in their heads telling them to get their umbrellas ready.

“Let’s go out for breakfast,” Castiel suggests when it’s a few minutes to eight, his arms wrapped around Dean’s waist from the back, making it impossible for Dean to fix his shirt and pull it over his pants.

“Won’t you be late for work?” he muses, but he is lost in thought, wondering how it might be if he were able to glue himself to Cas, to somehow lean into this even more, even with Cas’ chest pressed against his back.

“Only a bit, it’s okay,” he reassures him, placing a tentative kiss on the back of Dean’s neck.

They step out of the apartment and soon lose themselves in the morning buzz in the Metro. The whole world seems to be drowning in the same quiet; people around them rushing to work, tourists with cameras hanging around their necks, never tiring, all just aimlessly holding on for life when the carriage starts moving quickly, eyes fixed on the dirty, gum-stained floor.

The tall buildings and trees surrounding Saint Michele, as that is where they get out of the Metro, block the sun from getting here, making the street look like it’s not half past eight but half past six instead.

They hold hands as they make their way through the small alley separating the square and the bridge to Notre Dame, watching the tourist shops decorating it on both sides come to life. The alley is still mostly empty, blessed-empty, though.

They fall into a café-restaurant kind of service, only a few feet away from Shakespeare & Co. If Dean turns around, he can just make out the top of one of Notre Dame’s towers, bathing in sun.

There are other couples around them having breakfast – or something to drink, or morning coffee, or a glass of wine if they’re the courageous type – and the smells all mix before they hit Dean’s nose. 

He ends up ordering scrambled eggs and lemonade; pleased to hear when Cas orders the same.

They sit outside, the traffic behind their backs much less distracting than it should be. Their legs touch occasionally, set loose under the table, and every time they do, food falls off Dean’s fork, either back onto the plate or on the ground next to him. Some of it falls into Dean’s lap, and even though embarrassed, he laughs.

“Stop it,” he whines, his face involuntarily stretched in a grin. 

“Not doing anything,” Castiel answers sheepishly, the tip of his sneaker once again bumping gently against Dean’s shin.

It’s a lost cause, so Dean gives up trying to stop it.

After Cas finishes his breakfast, he cleans his mouth with a napkin, wiping away the grease from the otherwise delicious eggs. “I’m gonna have to go,” he tells Dean, apologetic.

“No, no, don’t worry about it. We’ll see each other in the evening.”

Castiel reaches out and places his hand over the back of Dean’s, his fingers running along Dean’s knuckles, one at a time, jumping in a certain rhythm. “Do you want to go out tonight?”

“No. I’ll be out all day. I’d rather spend the evening with you, at your apartment.” The unspoken is left hanging in the air like a dirty secret, like a burden split in two, sitting on both their shoulders.

“Sounds good to me,” Castiel murmurs, his eyes now on their joined hands. Clearing his throat, he quickly pours the rest of his lemonade down his throat. 

Dean watches him get up, tries to decide what he’ll miss most starting tomorrow afternoon; Cas’ hidden smile, the reason for it unknown, or the way he carries himself, light and easy but steady and straight, or the way he kisses Dean’s temple goodbye as if he was a child in need of comfort. _You’ll miss it all,_ his gut tells him as it squeezes around the heavy rock of their reality.

The chair screeches against the pavement when Cas puts it back in place, leaving Dean with a smile. So many hours till they see each other again; for only about as many hours before Dean leaves. He can now count the time they have left together with his fingers.

Dean spends a few more minutes at the restaurant, watching people pass by, wondering how it is possible that every single one of them has a story; and perhaps, there’s a young girl or another young boy lost in the crowd that will be leaving his love tomorrow, or in the next few days. It helps; the shared heaviness of the moment is better than carrying it all by himself.

He ends up ordering coffee, too, bewildered when they bring him a tiny box of popcorn with it, thinking, would I ever get tired of the new, will I ever be okay going back to the old?

With his stomach full and his wallet just that bit emptier, he returns back to Cas’ apartment to grab his camera and this time, even the tripod.

He really does plan on spending the time out today; capturing the lives of others in order to not think about his own. 

He is not a snob about it this time. He takes pictures in the Metro; even though knowing that the pictures won’t be able to tell the story of the smell (that Dean is now used to; that doesn’t even tickle his nose when he gets in), or the way the whoosh of air through the tunnel shakes your hand like you’re an old friend. 

It will, however, tell the story of the cramped place, of the hollow stations and black floors, neon lights and people holding hands, standing too close to the edge as they wait for the train. He takes a picture of the stairs, looks them up and down, graffiti over them, crumpled napkins here and there. He takes pictures of people leaning their heavy foreheads against the stained windows. Takes a picture of two teenagers, obviously together, but each with headphones on, listening to their own music. He takes a picture, and then another, and another.

He repeats the process once he’s out the Metro, too. He visits the Wall of Love near Van Gogh’s apartment, tries to capture the sadness on the face of an old lady with white hair and a cigarette squeezed between her lips, so obviously alone in the middle of a dozen couples. She is so much more important than all the I-love-yous in all the languages on one fake looking wall. 

(And still, he wishes Castiel would be here with him, so they could both see the old lady, so they could both appreciate each other’s presence, so they could both dislike the wall, but not what it represents.)

Ironically, Dean ends the afternoon back at the Montparnasse Cemetery, taking a rather cheesy picture of a girl sitting near Charles Baudelaire’s grave, head in hands. This time, it’s not heavy; just atmospheric.

It’s a Thursday, and Thursdays on Boulevard Montparnasse means flea markets and stalls with handmade jewelry and art, as Dean finds out when he escapes the cemetery for the second time during this trip.

He gets lost looking at blood red drawings by a man sipping on white wine in the sun; fumbles through colorful jewelry while the maker tells him about her life. He sits near a twenty-year-old school drop -out dressed in hippie clothes and discusses national parks with her while she lets a complete stranger rummage through her art. She tells him her earrings are made out of her ex-boyfriend’s braces. 

A half-happy, half-bitter laugh bubbles up Dean’s throat when he realizes he won’t miss just Castiel, but this awfully cheesy city, too.

 

Dean decides it was a good thing that he checked out of the hotel to just stay at Cas’ instead, even though it will get him a few mocking remarks from Balthazar if -- _when_ he tells him.

The reason he recognizes it as a good decision is simple; it feels strangely safe and sweet to wake up in Castiel’s messy bed, even if it’s their very last day. 

And, hands down, emotions aside, it feels even better to be able to wake up to someone slowly kissing their way up your chest. For a moment, Dean is blessed with forgetting why the kisses are slow and tender, trying to prolong the moment; sleep fades away as he opens his eyes, hand reaching for Cas.

“Come up here,” he mumbles, sleep leftovers carrying over his raspy voice.

Mouth against mouth, it’s so very easy to forget.

So before Dean packs his things, before they have one last lunch together _somewhere_ , before they get to Gare du Nord to change to the RER train to the airport; before all that, they roll around on the bed and touch, and feel, and come one last time, staining the bed sheets.

Then comes the nasty part, though; the part where Dean really does have to go around the apartment and gather his things, stuff the messy pile of clothes and other accessories into his suitcase. His face reddens with every item he picks up, starting when he snags Castiel’s shower gel instead of his own. And then. Boxers; Jesus, seconds ago, they were in bed. Black shirt with Motorhead logo; coming all over Cas’ sheets. Shoes; Cas will have to come back to the apartment and find the bed like that, messy, unmade, come-stained. Sunglasses; Dean would never be able to do that, Dean would cry. Pair of unused socks; he wants to kick, summon a God of this and that and ask for another day. The tripod; he hasn’t taken enough pictures of Cas’ face, he’s scared it will fade away even if they video call.

When Dean zips his suitcase, he sits down on the bed speechlessly, realizing that once he does his laundry, the smell of lemon mixed with mint will wash out and not linger on his clothes anymore.

Two in the afternoon comes five kisses too soon; or a million. They both leave the apartment, Cas having taken a day off so he could go with him. He lets Dean use the spare key one more time, turn it in the lock, the Harry Potter key-chain bumping against the heavy door. 

Without a word, he stuffs the key in the pocket of Cas’ burgundy colored hoodie, trying a lop-sided smile.

As they descend the stairs from Cas’ apartment down to the exit, Dean does his best not to look back; somehow, in the process, no matter how hard he had tried to deny it, it’s stopped being Cas’ apartment. Now, it feels like home in the most foreign place in the world, and Dean almost starts shaking when he realizes this.

 

They barely exchange five words on the train ride from Gare du Nord to the airport. Dean keeps checking his watch seemingly every two minutes, as if worried whether he will make it on time, when he’s in fact checking how much time he has left to spend with Castiel. Every two minutes, there’s a little less of it.

Dean didn’t ask Cas to come to begin with; one of the many things they never dared to discuss. After grabbing lunch – if two sandwiches with funny tasting sauce count as lunch -- however, they are still together. Dean is glad Cas wanted to come along and say goodbye; is thankful for these last minutes, unprompted but wished upon.

The RER train is different from the Metro in many ways; first of all, there is no smell except for the cologne of forty year old businessmen pretending to be the most important people in the world. The small LED lamps decorating the ceiling cover the interior in much brighter colors than the lights in the regular Metro, and then, of course, there is the countryside running alongside them like a friend not willing to say goodbye.

The seats are a lot wider, too, covered in blue. Separated, so impersonal. On every stop – and there are quite a few – Dean shuffles closer to Cas, to the point where he can feel the edge of the seat dig into his butt, but he clenches his teeth and stays still. Enjoys the press of Cas’ thigh against his while he can.

Other than those few inches, they are not touching. Yet, Dean can practically still feel Castiel’s muscles beneath his fingers, and he momentarily feels the closeness he had locked in Castiel’s apartment as they left.

The fact that their ways are about to part is horrible enough for Dean to not think about the seven hour long flight this time; that’s the lesser evil of this day, if he’s being honest, even with his palms getting sweaty when he thinks of the airplane.

He sighs and looks out the window, marveling at the countryside, but also missing the crowdedness of Paris somehow, as if the picture wasn’t whole unless there was a family of happy tourists somewhere near.

Dean feels Castiel’s hand rest on his thigh. He looks up, manages a grin when their eyes meet. He looks around cautiously; their carriage is far from empty, but he doesn’t think he would handle a _what if you stayed?_ that seems to be forming on Cas’ lips.

Dean leans in after a second of hesitation and presses his mouth against Castiel’s, covering the words hovering there, making them die or slip back into Castiel’s mouth, down his throat. If he didn’t hate clichés so much, he would probably rest his forehead against Castiel’s and sigh deeply. This way, he simply presses his lips against Cas’ mouth for a tiny bit longer, and then pulls away.

“You’ve got my number,” Castiel says, his nose bumping against Dean’s gently, “and my Facebook. And my Skype.”

Dean nods and places his hand over Castiel’s. He squeezes it in what he hopes is a reassuring way; not sure where the reassurance is coming from as he would need some himself. Either way, he doesn’t think he could ever squeeze his fingers hard enough to let Cas know just how he feels.

Two watch-checks later, Dean knows the train will slow down for the very last time and they’ll have to shuffle out, arriving at their final destination: the Charles de Gaulle airport.

Soon enough, they’re there, and Dean lets Cas help him with his luggage. 

They are both equally thankful that the place could just as well be a tiny city of its own it’s so large. They have to take the stairs up twice before they’re on the right floor, and holding hands, sweaty cold palm against sweaty cold palm, they walk around the moving walkways, stealing those few precious minutes for themselves.

The airport opens in front of them, then, like the mouth of a mythological beast about to swallow them. Sun knocks at the window walls, forcefully making its way in and lighting up the wide hallway buzzing with people.

He is about to disappear from Castiel’s life, Dean knows, when they arrive at the check-ins. Or is it, perhaps, more the other way around; is Castiel disappearing from Dean’s? If so, he’s leaving a mark, and a burning one at that. One that makes Dean feel scared and cornered, like a beaten dog; or like he’s got an itch, somewhere underneath his skin that he cannot possibly reach with his very human fingernails and scratch.

After check-in, when Dean’s about to enter the duty free zone – or, alternatively, the zone of no return -- they stand there, at the giant Charles de Gaulle airport, in the middle of the sunlit room, holding hands. Dean can feel his chest squeeze in pain and uncertainty, trying to take this in all at once, zoning out on all the people walking past them, focusing on Cas in front of him. 

“You’ve got my number,” Castiel repeats again, and it stings Dean to the bone.

“I do, and I’ll call. And text. And Skype,” he tells him, quiet and suddenly restrained. A little girl with a giant Hello Kitty bag walks past him and hits him with the bag on accident. Dean doesn’t even notice. 

Castiel nods and bows his head. The gesture is all Dean needs, though; it tells him that whatever it is that happened between them, and whatever it formed – be it affection, or love, if Dean would dare – isn’t one-sided. 

“Okay,” Dean breaks the silence that has been hovering over them and around them in this otherwise very noisy airport. “I should probably get going.”

“Yeah.”

Once again, there’s nothing else to say. 

Dean wants to tell Cas to go and have wine at that place he likes so much, the one they visited together, maybe think of him while there, but it sounds too cheesy even in his head and he would never say it out loud. He wants to tell him how much these past two weeks meant to him; that it was much better than going hiking with Sam, but he doesn’t say that, either. He wants to tell Cas that he doesn’t want to leave, but they both know it wouldn’t be true – Paris might have been the biggest plot twist in Dean’s life, but it’s not a city he could live in. He could _love_ in it, but it would get over his head too quickly. And lastly, he wants to tell Cas to come with him – but he knows it wouldn’t be right to share the unreasonable guilt. Castiel was clear when he said he wasn’t ready.

He wants to hold Cas, at the core of all the things he wants, but he doesn’t dare to, because he’s worried he would never let him go.

Dean wants to kiss him, and that’s the only thing he’s brave enough to do. 

Still holding hands awkwardly, Dean’s palms cupping Castiel’s, unmoving and becoming slightly sweaty again, Dean leans in and slowly, almost as if he was afraid Castiel would break and the little bubble he’d lived in would explode, kisses him.

Cas relaxes under Dean’s touch, as if it’s something they were both supposed to do, supposed to keep doing forever. He takes a tiny step forwards and his chest bumps against Dean’s, finally, finally no gap, definitely no ocean _not yet_ parting them, and they’re close, so close. Dean can see Castiel in his apartment; having macaroons at a tiny passage on Boulevard Montmartre; kissing Dean for the first time by the Seine; rolling on top of him in the morning after the night they spent together.

And then it’s over.

They both pull away at the same time, and the dream collapses. Cold washes over Dean when the safety of it comes apart around them, laying at their feet broken into pieces.

“I really gotta go,” he murmurs, and now he’s not sure if he’s talking about his boarding time or about his parting in general. Despite his words, Castiel’s hands remain clasped in his.

Castiel seems to understand, though, because he nods, and with a small smile, he says, “I know.”

Dean is still too worried to hold Cas; to hug him – still worried he would just collapse into Cas’ arms, or the other way around, and there would be no way back, and they would die intertwined, right here.

And so he only pecks Cas’ lips, once again, telling himself he deserves one more taste. “I’ll call you when I’m in New York. If the flight doesn’t kill me,” he adds, trying to make it sound like he’s joking, trying to make it sound like he actually doesn’t want to rest his head on Castiel’s shoulder and not move for hours, cooling his feverishly hot forehead against Castiel’s shirt.

Castiel laughs, probably for Dean’s benefit. “You’ll be fine. Just keep thinking about me, that will keep you occupied.” Castiel even winks at Dean, making sure it’s understood as a joke.

It is, at first at least, but Lord knows Dean will keep coming back to this sentence, analyzing it, trying to ignore the pain the truth of it brings.

Dean is glad they say their goodbyes on a light note, still smiling when Cas’ hand finally slips through Dean’s fingers, Dean’s palm closing around cold air. 

About an hour or so later, he thinks back with irony to how true Castiel’s words were. He is literally the only thing on Dean’s mind as he fastens his seatbelt; it almost overshines the now present anxiety Dean is feeling.

As the airplane takes off, Dean pulls out the copy of Cat’s Cradle he picked up at that flea market, on that day that now seems ages ago, and not really reading (since every other word seems to transform into ‘Cas’ in front of his eyes), he’s determined to survive the next few hours. And Castiel helps, even though he’s not even there anymore. It’s only a ghost of his hand resting on Dean’s thigh, a phantom of his leg pressed against Dean’s, a lost whisper telling Dean it’ll be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The plaque on Hemingway's apartment building looks like [this](http://www.electricscotland.com/familytree/frank/images/hemingway1.jpg). It says: "De janvier 1922 à août 1923 a vécu, au troisième étage de cet immeuble, avec Hadley, son épouse, l'écrivain américain Ernest Hemingway (1899-1961).  
> Le quartier, qu'il aimait par-dessus tout, fur le véritable lieu de naissance de son oeuvre et du style qui la caractérise. Cet américain à Paris entretenait des relations familières avec ses voisins, notamment le patron du bal-musette attenant."  
> "Tel était le Paris de notre jeunesse, au temps où nous étions très pauvres et très heureux."
> 
> Translation: From January 1922 to August 1923, Ernest Hemingway lived on the third story of this building with Hadley, his wife.  
> The neighborhood, which he loved above all else, was the birthplace of his work and the style that characterizes him. This American in Paris kept good relations with his neighbors, notably with the boss of the adjacent bal-musette.  
> "Such was the Paris of our youth, the days when we were very poor and very happy." 
> 
> **"I don't work tomorrow, but Max has a shift."
> 
> ***"Of course, it's no problem. Bye."


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing Dean does when he steps off the plane and enters the claiming area is that he goes to take a piss. For seven hours, he held it in and held it tight because getting up and walking across the plane was not an option, so the toilets here are the one thing to be happy about.

They are bright and smell of cleaning chemicals, and funnily enough, the faint smell of urine is nothing like what he’s used to smelling now; it’s so different compared to the Paris Metro.

As Dean pulls outs his phone and turns it on, the bag with his camera thrown over his shoulder so he leans to the side a bit, he needs to resist the urge to text Cas saying that he _misses the metro smell. amazing huh?_

Instead, after he finds his place by the claims, he finds himself inhaling deeply.

Turns out, after the initial thrill of texting Cas, a new kind of anxiety that’s got nothing to do with planes, settles in his gut. It’s strange and new – and Dean doesn’t really think it’s the good kind of new – to even think about texting Cas with the idea of different cities, different _timezones_.

Dean’s fingers end up moving across his screen quickly when the baggage carousel starts rolling, spitting out one bag and suitcase after another.

He texts a very simple, _just landed in ny!_

And, silly as it is, he bites down on his nails while he’s waiting for his suitcase to appear, the same fear still in the pit of his stomach, sitting low but heavy. The suitcase is nowhere to be seen for the longest time; and Dean’s phone is dead, still in his hand for even longer.

And then, finally –

 _Yay! Glad you’re safe._

No emoticon, no nothing. Dean frowns at the screen, the ugly impersonal message staring back at him rudely. He can still see their previous conversation on the top of the screen, cutting half of one of the texts off, but still – those conversations back in Paris, playful texts exchanged while Cas was at work and Dean waited for him – they stand like an army of angry men, ready to attack. The new, short text is the first call to war.

Dean’s finger hovers over options for a second and before his brain can put two and two together, he opens it up and presses dial when it pops up.

How much do phone calls overseas cost? he muses, his eyes now fixed on the carousel and the people around him who haven’t been lucky either and are still waiting up on their luggage.

For some reason, it’s a surprise when Castiel picks up somewhere during the third dull ring.

“Dean?” His voice sounds breathy and somewhat unfamiliar; and quiet, so quiet. Maybe it’s the fact it’s an international call, Dean tells himself as he presses his forefinger against the side button of his phone to increase the volume.

“Is everything alright, Cas?” he asks, as if Cas was the one waiting for his bags at an airport.

Dean has to wait ages for the answer, both their voices delayed, and perhaps, Dean’s voice sounds just as unfamiliar and Cas needs to wrap his mind around it at first. Dean wonders, in the back of his mind, whether he’s experienced with oversea calls; has he ever talked to his family this way? 

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking that?” It still sounds dull, still quieter than it should; it’s almost like the waves of the ocean parting them have carried Cas’ voice on their backs themselves, stealing some of Cas’ voice as a compensation.

Dean swings on his heels, looks around as if he was expecting to see everyone’s eyes focused on him, waiting on his next move. One little girl, definitely not older than five, with blonde ponytails _is_ staring at him, but when he winks at her, she giggles and looks away.

“Not a huge fan of texting,” he admits instead, realizing now that his text sounded about as detached as Castiel’s.

The giggle comes five seconds late and sounds too restrained to perhaps be genuine, but it’s the sound Dean wants to hear the most in the world and so he bathes it in, lets it cover him for at least a second.

“Me neither,” Castiel muses, “I miss you, Dean.”

It fills Dean with warmth. He feels like maybe, if he closed his eyes, he could make himself believe that he is, actually, sitting right next to Cas on his old couch in his old, old apartment. He needs to keep his eyes open, though, because there is this reality that needs to be taken care of.

“I miss you, too,” he breathes out.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean can finally see the old worn black fabric of his suitcase, a few feet away from him. He desperately wants to keep talking; wants to ask about Castiel’s day, whether leaving the airport felt as awful as flying, whether he feels the sudden gap between them as a physical wound someone has poured salt in.

“I gotta go,” he needs to say, though, for the second time that day. “I’m still at the airport and I need to go take care of my bags. I’ll talk to you later?” his breath jumping over the last few syllables, hitching in his throat.

“I’ll be asleep then, I’m afraid. It’s almost midnight here,” Castiel reminds him gently, and yeah, right, right. Different timezones; don’t forget about that.

“Oh. _Oh._ I forgot. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, then?”

“I sure hope so,” Castiel says, and this time, Dean can actually hear the smile in his voice; the kind of relief it brings him almost sweeps him off his feet.

When he ends the call, he’s in a hurry to grab his stuff, so he doesn’t even realize that his palms are sweaty, the one holding the phone sliding across its hot surface. His very first long distance call with Cas; not sure how he feels about it as he wraps his hand around the suitcase’s handle and picks it up.

Pushing Castiel out of his mind for at least a second, he finally calls Sam – and it’s Sam Dean is trying to find in the crowd later. Trying to make himself believe that it’s okay; but that it’s also okay to feel like he would be much happier if he were looking for Cas instead.

 

Sam is terribly easy to spot in any crowd, so it’s no surprise that Dean’s eyes find him before Sam has any chance to so much as start looking for him. 

The hug they exchange is tight, as if they haven’t seen each other for long months, even though they’ve only been apart for two short weeks. Having had the ocean between them, though, puts those two weeks in a different perspective; a lot can change and happen when crossing it. 

It’s a pleasant thought when you get to hug someone hello; an unpleasant one when you wave someone goodbye. Dean’s emotions are mixed as he had to do both today; the pleasant and the unpleasant colliding and making him feel heavy on his feet. 

“Aw, such a gentleman,” Dean mocks Sam when he grabs Dean’s suitcase without being asked to. Sam parrots Dean’s amused expression and Dean pats his back. Existing around Sam is very easy; Dean recognizes and is familiar with what he might say or do, he knows where his limits are. He doesn’t like comparing that to what he has with Cas – the opposite, really. Being around someone Dean knows, in this very moment, when all he wants to do is call Cas again and then maybe again, and then for the fourth time, too, is strangely encouraging.

It is not until they are in Sam’s car, though, Dean’s hand out of the open window, that he relaxes fully. The weather is about as nice as it was back in Paris, but Dean can’t shake off the feeling that even the air smells different here in the US. He thought so the second they stepped out of JFK; now, on the way to Dean’s apartment, the feeling amplifies. 

“So, man,” Sam muses, his fingers wrapped securely around the wheel while he chances a glance to the side to look at Dean, “care to tell me about Paris?”

“Sam, I’m just so happy to not be on a plane right now, I don’t even know what else to tell you.”

“Well, there’s the article,” Sam starts counting, his fingers now tapping against the wheel to a song that neither of them can hear but is dictating the rhythm to Sam’s hands anyway. “Then there’s Paris, because I mean, that’s something.” And the third thing that Sam could possibly get to; the one thing that is now lurking just around the corner… “And then there’s Castiel.”

“Wow, took you about thirty minutes to bring it up, must be a record for you,” Dean snickers but despite his attitude, he seems to sink deeper into the passenger seat.

Another sideway glance, this time with a raised eyebrow for a companion. “So?”

Dean sighs and purses his lips, bringing his sunglasses from the top of his head over his eyes, even though the sun has set long ago; and even if it didn’t, it would be behind them still. He looks into the wing mirror close to him, catching half of his reflection. “I told you everything when we called.”

“So you’re really doing the long distance relationship thing?” Sam asks, but once again, there are way too many questions hiding behind this one. It’s the phone call they had all over again – is this Castiel worth it, are you sure you can trust him? Do you _love_ him? Another sigh escapes Dean’s mouth; he is too tired to deal with any of this; not the emotional dilemma the questions offer, rather convincing someone else, someone not involved in those two weeks in Paris, just how worth it Castiel is.

“Least we can do is give it a shot,” Dean exclaims, the words rolling around on his tongue lazily, as he stubbornly looks out of the window.

With the sun gone and the cool evening air replacing the warmth and humidity of the day, Dean rolls his window up and allows himself to close his eyes behind the sunglasses.

“Oh, come on!” Sam whines, “You can literally sleep in less than thirty minutes. Could you _please_ tell me about Paris now?” 

With the subject of Cas tucked safely away, Dean has no problem grinning and opening his mouth to talk again.

He then manages to momentarily forget about everything; talking about Paris and his work but not talking about Cas should prove to be difficult, but it is, turns out, not. Dean’s mind seems to be treating Paris and Cas as two separate things, and in this case, it’s for the better. At least he gets to turn his brain off for a second.

So, sat in Sam’s car, the way to his apartment seemingly longer than it should be, Dean’s jaw aches from talking about Paris, its streets and lights and colors, and his mind does not wander towards Cas, not even once. 

The fact he’s not in a one mile radius of Cas’ presence only gets to him later. He’s in his apartment by then, Sam’s excited comments on Dean’s trip long gone, now only an echo in Dean’s head. 

He is sitting on his bed, much like he sat on Cas’ only hours ago, the suitcase open but untouched on the floor in front of him.

Instead of getting up and taking care of it, partly lost in thought, he looks around his flat. It looks impossibly naked; no pictures of Edith Piaf or Charlie Chaplin, no vintage pictures and furniture standing on wonky legs. Just his bedroom, separated from the rest of the apartment by a solid wooden door, walls covered in a boring white with a few exceptions here and there; Dean’s work, mostly, one picture terribly far away from the next. There’s no mess, everything is neat; which is okay, Dean doesn’t like mess. He, however, hates the bareness of his surroundings.

It takes him a few minutes to figure out what the problem is – and then he realizes that there is nothing, _nothing_ that would say Cas, or at least remind Dean of him. The lack of his presence is painfully obvious; and it hurts to such degree Dean decides to turn off his phone and not check his email, worrying that no new texts and an empty inbox might hurt even more. Thankful that he had taken a shower minutes after getting here, he now undresses and naked, cold without a warm body pressed to his side, he pulls the sheets up, up till they cover him whole, and tries to sleep.

 

Dean’s phone rings a few minutes past eight, awakening the urge to kill as well. It’s a good twenty seconds into _Travelling Riverside Blues_ by the time Dean manages to roll over and with his eyes closed, grab at his phone.

“What is it?” he groans into the machine, settling on his right side and burying his face back in the pillow.

“Hello there!” Balthazar acclaims in a tone that must be illegal at this hour in at least five states for sure. 

Dean balances the phone on his ear till it’s securely laying there. His arm then falls, resting against his hip. All he needs to do is not move and the phone should be okay; not a problem with that in Dean’s current state. He couldn’t sleep for the love of him and being awake now is killing him.

“Boss,” goes another groan.

“I wanted to check up on you. Is everything alright? Did you get back okay?”

Dean nods before realizing that a) Balthazar can’t see him and b) he’s not holding the phone to his ear. The machine really does fall off his head and slides down the pillow. Sighing, Dean finally forces his eyes to open and picks the phone back up. “Sure, sure. I’ll get you the pictures by the end of the week.”

“Darling, it’s Friday.”

“ _Next_ week.”

Dean doesn’t hear Balthazar laugh often, so a restrained snort is a kind of victory. “Sure, whatever you say. I really wanted to check if everything was fine, though, since you dragged your ass back yesterday but didn’t think to call your boss. Who paid for the thing in the first place.”

“Shit, sorry,” Dean rubs at his eyes. He doesn’t have a real excuse for not calling Balthazar; other than feeling homesick for a place that never was his home; homesick for a person that might have been, even though for only a short amount of time. “I’ll call you later, okay? Still half asleep, can’t function.”

That gives him another snort and also the end of the conversation; the bad thing is, Dean never manages to fall asleep, his eyes tired but his brain wide awake now it’s been provoked into functioning at least a little. Even with the curtains drawn and the traffic relatively quiet, Dean is restless inside.

Half past eight has him standing barefoot in his kitchen, making coffee, in a strange gloomy mood that doesn’t get shooed away by Dean’s classic rock radio station.

The day itself doesn’t get much better; Dean feels the lack of Castiel’s presence since the moment he fully wakes up, and it’s manageable till he knows Cas is still asleep – what with an eight hour difference – but at four in the afternoon, Dean is somehow tired and lonely. 

He’s stuffing himself with French fries, trying to watch TV – because despite being lonely on a day off, he simply refuses to look at his Paris pictures yet, and his suitcase is already unpacked and tucked away on the top shelf in his closet – his heart picks up a quicker pace when he feels his phone vibrate against his leg.

_Have to work morning shift for Nico, won’t be able to come online till late late evening :( So sorry._

It’s a punch in the gut, even though Dean would never admit to it; having his laptop open next to him on the couch is admission enough in his opinion. He shuts it close, red in the face. 

_Don’t worry about it okay? We’ll talk later. I hope you have a good day_ he types and after a minute of consideration, he adds _< 3_ to end the sentence, hitting send before he can add anything else or whine about not being able to talk to him.

It’s breathtakingly noticeable just how different it is from being next to Cas and from kissing him, from being able to run his fingers through Cas’ hair, from simply existing near him; it’s nowhere near the empty, hollow feeling of just sending a heart-shaped emoji to express anything and everything.

It’s a new, strange sort of heartache Dean feels when he doesn’t hear from Cas for the rest of the day.

 

Dean’s second night back home treats him just like his fist one did. 

He startles awake only a few minutes past six, after barely three hours of sleep, and no matter how hard he tries to squeeze his eyes shut and sweet talk himself back to sleep, it doesn’t work. All that’s left is his high ceiling or the wall to stare at.

He considers counting sheep, but instead, he ends up counting what time it is for Cas right now. He’s not that good at math, but it doesn’t take him long to figure out it’s past ten for him. Does that mean _late late evening_? Dean wonders, and before his mind can tell him no, he’s grabbing the laptop from his nightstand, sitting up in his bed and opening it, placing it on his thighs.

It seems to take ages to boot up, but when it finally does, Dean takes the cursor right to the Skype icon on his desktop.

Castiel’s name is bright green, the Nike-like “swoosh” approving of them both being online. Dean’s heart is a small bird’s in that moment, as he frantically rushes to say hi; he feels as if there was only a little time, as if Cas’ icon could go saddening grey any second.

_[6:07:12] dean w: you there?_

_[6:07:35] Cas: Dean! Hi! What are you doing here?  
[6:07:41] Cas: So happy you are. Here, I mean. :)_

_[6:07:48] dean w: can’t sleep, blaming jet lag  
[6:07:56] dean w: thanking jet lag, really. how was your day?_

_[6:08:11] Cas: Do you want to video call?_

Dean’s fingers hover over the keyboard. His heart that has calmed down when he was sure they would get to talk for at least one important minute is now back to racing like a stallion. He would get to _see_ Cas. He would get to smile, and he would get a smile in return, and it would be the closest thing to intimacy and closeness he can ask for right now. 

And still, somehow, it’s difficult to type the correct answer. He knows he looks awful; running on so little sleep, in a baggy plain-white t-shirt. But then again, Cas has seen worse (and better, considering); has seen the goosebumps on Dean’s naked chest in the cold morning air, has seen his face pale when he tasted something awful. 

_[6:08:40] dean w: yeah sure!_

Castiel must have been waiting just for Dean’s permission, because Dean’s screen lights up with an incoming call.

It’s silly, but he can’t quite bring himself to accept for the first few seconds. It’s silly, because they have talked so many times, always with such ease; and it didn’t end there. They have touched and kissed and done everything a couple should do, so picking up a damn call should be easy. Funny, how it is not.

Dean can literally feel his gut squeeze and his fingers tremble against the touchpad as he moves his cursor to _answer with video_. 

He blinks and clicks on it.

A new window opens, and before either of them can say a word, now that he’s in, he quickly turns his webcam on. His face is just a tiny square in the right bottom corner, but when he clicks to enlarge the window, Castiel’s face stretches out to full-screen mode.

“Hi!” Castiel exclaims again with a smile that shows his teeth.

Dean hopes he manages a smile in return, but in reality, his heart drops; sinks like a rock thrown into muddy water. Castiel’s face is not what Dean was expecting; it’s blurry, sometimes slow when he moves too abruptly. Dean _does_ try to imagine the smile wrinkles decorating Cas’ eyes, and he _does_ try to recall the blue of his eyes; or the color of his lips, glistening with saliva as he licks at them. Except it doesn’t work, because right in front of him, there is Castiel’s face, after all, real enough to recognize.

Castiel frowns. “Is everything okay?”

Dean startles from his disappointment, manages to shake it off within a few seconds, his mind perhaps storing it for later. “Yeah, sure, don’t worry, Cas. I’m – so glad to see you.”

Castiel’s face relaxes, and it makes Dean smile; the way Cas’ eyes are focused on his computer screen, examining this or that part of Dean’s face, unmoving, intent. “You have no idea.”

“So how was your day?” Dean tries again, moving his laptop, now hot against his thighs, a little bit upwards. 

This time, he does get an answer; not a very detailed one, but an answer nonetheless. They talk nonsense, mostly; Dean slowly getting used to this new kind of intimacy, and he guesses that it could be worse. The lamp on his nightstand could throw less light, Castiel’s face could be even blurrier, after all.

Around midnight (for Cas) – when Dean is fully awake and the eight am light starts fighting its way into his room, but Castiel’s face starts to fall under the weight of the day – they seem to finally cross the river they have been avoiding all night, trying to build bridges made out of stupid jokes and teasing.

“I stopped by rue Mouffetard on my way from work,” Castiel admits after Dean’s negative reply to whether he has started working on the pictures yet. 

“I bet it fell apart after I left,” Dean jokes, trying to step around the hot mess that talking about Paris could be. To no avail, though; Cas’ tired face is a proof enough that the time for easy joking has come and gone.

“Could have easily been the case,” Castiel admits, “You have no idea how empty it is here without you.”

Dean shudders involuntarily. They never promised each other anything – unless light kisses before turning off the lights and waking up in each other’s arms could count as a promise.

“I miss your messy apartment,” Dean counters, laughing nervously, hoping it covers the sudden heavy ring to his tone as he feels something like tears well up in his eyes. No, no – he’s not going to cry. He is not.

Castiel breaks out in actual laughter, the sound that Dean associates with him as much as lemon with mint. “You do not.”

“Just a tiny little bit,” he argues, trying not to stare at Castiel’s mouth on the screen. “But honest, I wish I could be there with you, like, Place des Vosges would be amazing right now.”

Castiel falls silent after that; strangely silent, his lips just a tiny line. If the webcam quality wasn’t so low, Dean would perhaps be able to see the expression on Cas’ face clearly; maybe he would see that they are both thinking back to the day they spent there, then kissing by the Seine. 

“Bed would be pretty amazing,” Castiel comments, and Dean is not sure if that is supposed to be an innuendo; a disguised nod towards the nights they spent together, or if it’s just Cas taken by his sudden tiredness.

Dean, for one reason or another, chooses to believe the latter; perhaps because the former would bring more vivid memories that would be tough to deal with at eight in the morning.

“Bye for now, then?” he suggests, his voice falling to a low hum.

“I think so,” Castiel nods, then looks away; Dean, who has been focused on Castiel’s face up until now, gets distracted by that and finally looks at his background. He recognizes Cas’ living room, is sure that he would feel the couch Cas is sitting on’s roughness if he only reached out. Cas’ eyes dart back to the screen and Dean quickly pushes the image of them sitting there together out of his mind. “Sorry, I’m just so tired after today.”

“It’s okay, Cas,” Dean tells him once more. “We’ll talk soon.”

“Yeah.” Another nod.

Dean, before he can change his mind, blows a quick kiss at the screen, hoping it comes across fine and not delayed. When he sees Cas mirror it, he smiles, and quickly hangs up, worried that the morning light now surrounding him would look way too flattering accompanied by the furious blush on Dean’s face.

_[8:24:12] Cas: That was nice :)_

_[8:24:21] dean w: yeah, i’m glad video calls work. go get your beauty sleep now!_

_[8:24:27] Cas: You know it. I’ll talk to you soon?_

_[8:24:35] dean w: sure cas. sleep tight… let the bedbugs bite? :p_

_[8:24:45] Cas: I certainly hope not. ;) Goodnight, Dean… or I guess, have a lovely day <3_

_[8:25:00] dean w: <3 just go, you doofus  
[8:25:01] dean w: <3_

Castiel’s icon then turns the saddening grey Dean had been afraid of when logging in, and Dean carefully places the laptop beside him. He’s terribly sore, not having moved properly for just over two hours. 

Instead of getting up, even though his bladder is telling him to get up _right now_ and take care of this business, he shuffles on the bed till he’s back in lying position. He rests his head on the squished pillow and blocks the world by throwing his arm across his eyes.

When the happy feeling of their video call – of seeing Cas’ face at all – bubbles out of his chest in a heavy sigh, all that’s left is the cold of his bedroom; and when he breathes in, the only thing he smells is very far from lemon and mint. 

Finally getting up to go pee, Dean muses over writing a serious article on how starting a long distance relationship after you’ve spent some time together is worse than the other way around – mostly because it doesn’t make I-love-yous easier.

 

On Dean’s fifth day back home, something breaks. He can almost hear the crack when he throws his feet off the bed in the morning to get up and start his day. In his head, the crack – however metaphorical – is loud and unfixable. Whatever has been fractured is now in pieces; or at least that’s how Dean feels.

He feels genuinely broken, over something. 

He is not sure what it is, not yet, but it affects him; he doesn’t feel like talking, doesn’t feel like opening his mouth to even yawn. He has to drag his feet to the kitchen and when he sits down to eat his cereal ten minutes later, it tastes like cardboard on his tongue.

One look at a calendar tells him that it’s Monday – which is frightfully close to Friday – which is his first deadline for the pictures and he will need to submit something. However, it takes Dean _hours_ before he is able to sit down in front of his computer and get the pictures on there. There are over six hundred; and simply looking at the first one makes Dean cringe so hard he closes the program right away. 

Apparently, it’s not a good self-worth day.

He genuinely expects his day to peak around eleven in the evening when he’s got a date with Cas scheduled, but even seeing Cas’ icon turn green is somehow less exciting that it should have been. 

_[10:58:10] Cas: Well hello there, stranger :)_

It pops up seconds after Cas signs in. On any other day, it would be perfect, and loving, and bright. On this day, it’s too eager, and Dean is too scared to be eager back. As if trying to protect the something that has been broken earlier that day, Dean somehow sub-consciously starts to avoid sweetness in the conversation. 

_[10:59:22] dean w: hey, sup?_

Keeping the fine line between being distant and being a good, casual friend is thin, though; and even though they’ve only known each other for weeks – days still counting to get to months, and right now, Dean is not sure if that is a good thing, maybe they should have gotten there already, somehow tweaked time – Cas sees right through it.

_[11:16:53] Cas: Dean, are you okay?_

Slight tremble in Dean’s fingers.

_[11:17:05] dean w: sure, why?_

_[11:17:23] Cas: I don’t know, you sound off. Do you want to video call?_

The little tiny man in Dean’s head; the doubtful guy, the sneaky compadre; the fellow who might have done the breaking in the first place, starts pacing in Dean’s head, around and around, in circles. Distantly, Dean knows he’s taking way too long with his reply.

_[11:18:56] dean w: i’d rather not, i’m sporting a headache and look like shit_

_My apologizes,_ the man in Dean’s head says, _the emotions are getting to be a bit too much, there needed to be an intervention._

_[11:19:13] dean w: actually, i might wanna go to bed if that’s okay with you?_

_[11:19:31] Cas: Of course, Dean  
[11:19:40] Cas: Let me know if it gets worse? I’ll send text-formatted comfort_

_[11:19:48] dean w: hah, okay. i’m sure i’ll be fine, though_

_[11:20:01] Cas: Either way, feel better soon <3_

Without much hesitation; 

_[11:20:05] dean w: thanks :)_

His hands seem to move on their own accord as he quickly changes from Online to Invisible, feeling a sting of guilt somewhere in his gut. Castiel’s icon stays bright green – and Dean knows, because he’s staring at the conversation window still, unable to move.

He wonders, for a second, whether something broke in both of them this morning and whether they might have been able to pull it back together if only Dean didn’t feel the need to end the conversation as soon as possible.

Dean is not completely clear on his motives, too – doesn’t exactly understand what led him to his cold, impersonal responses, to his fragile excuse that most likely didn’t ring true in the least. 

His affection for Cas -- _love_ , even though he stubbornly refuses to call it that, because isn’t love a ridiculous concept, isn’t love _ridiculous_ , period, especially after two weeks? – seems to be afloat in a sea of confusion and a dull but constant pain of separation. Dean knows he could have said so – can even imagine Cas nodding his head at the computer screen at _Cas, we totally underestimated long distance relationships, am I right?_

Maybe it’s the distance that has kept him from saying anything. After all, there is an ocean between them, and anything could get lost in such a mass of water; underwater creatures might have nipped at the edges of the feelings between them and damaged it forever. Dean is scared of the ocean and, therefore, scared of the distance.

It might not have scared him back in Paris; the idea of it was distant and unclear. It might not have scared him during the first few days of its existence; his mind still blissfully foggy, covered in days spent together. 

But now, on this godforsaken fifth day, Dean is done and scared and confused. 

This is not what he had imagined. He had imagined something platonic to blossom out of this, he had imagined long talks and angsty conversations and sharing memories all over again. While, in fact, he does not want to remember and their talks are often cut short due to one, two, three… eight hours separating them. The only platonic feeling Dean is getting – if that can be called platonic, although he doubts it – is the constant feeling of wanting to be near Cas, not here, far away. 

It makes him worry that maybe whatever they have was based on something physical, not necessarily on them having each other’s backs in general. 

Dean almost laughs, although it would be a sad pathetic noise, when he realizes this is just plain old sadness that has come to visit.

He finally clicks on Offline, closes Skype as fast as he can to not provoke the guilt to come back. 

He is just about to close his laptop – already clutching his phone in hand, ready to call Sam and actually ask for a brothers’ night out to just zone out and not think for a while – when a peculiar sound interrupts him.

It takes him a minute to realize that he left internet open, Facebook being one of the tabs.

With a frown, he goes to his profile, glaring at the little red notification – he’s got a new friend request.

He clicks it open, taken aback when he sees who has added him. _Max._ Out of all people – high school classmates stumbling upon his profile, someone who liked his photography page – it’s Max.

Dean reluctantly clicks her profile open. He opens up her profile picture, his breath hitching in his throat. In the picture, she is sitting on Cas’ couch, seemingly relaxed, smiling, her legs crossed. Dean wonders if Cas was the one taking this picture – perhaps snagging Max’s phone when she wasn’t looking and then snapping it, all the while just hanging out. 

Dean is incredibly jealous.

With a frustrated sigh, he purses his lips and considers confirming the friend request, but then, for some reason, he doesn’t.

He closes the laptop abruptly, just another thing to push out of his mind so his conscience isn’t a guilty one. 

Quickly, albeit still wearing the same frown, he dials Sam’s number; because Sam is here, he’s easy, there’s nothing to worry about and nothing to avoid during a conversation. Even though Dean knows he should have talked to Cas – should have approved of Max’s friend request, he tells himself, _tomorrow_. Knowing it is a lie, it still makes it easier to press his phone against his ear and suggest bowling when his brother picks up.

 

There is nothing noble about what Dean does the next day – which is straight out lying. Shortly after he wakes up, he texts Cas that they won’t be able to talk today because Dean has a deadline on Friday and needs to spend the day working, unfortunately.

The first half of the text is true, which makes Dean feel better about himself, as if spreading half-lies is better than spreading lies in any way. It’s still a slap when Cas texts him back, encourages him on, wishes him luck with the pictures. Dean almost wishes he would have gotten nothing in return; that would have hurt alright, but at least it wouldn’t have made him feel guilty and disgusting.

Especially because he does zero work on that day. Nada. He doesn’t even try, to be perfectly honest.

Instead, he does his laundry. He hasn’t been able to smell lemon – or mint, at that matter – on himself for days now, anyway.

 

Dean’s conscience, however innocent he wants to call it, is guilty at the roots. It wakes him up two days later, hours before he planned to get up – and he planned to get up early, because it is, after all, Thursday, and he _really_ needs to get at least something done and ready for Friday.

Sitting up in his bed, he only has a distant memory of what dreams woke him up – he remembers emotions more than anything else, and the one standing out in between all the others is being suffocated. Whether by his own guilt or by the situation – that he has created for himself, this hole he has dug for himself with lies and excuses and avoiding Cas for the love of him for two days now – it was choking him. Strange hands grasped tightly around his neck. Dean remembers, though, that in the dream, he wouldn’t die no matter how long those hands gripped and hurt him.

It was as if he could save himself, if only he tried.

He is reasonably distressed after a dream like this, and even though it’s only quarter past five, there is no way he would be able to go back to sleep.

He turns on his computer with a sigh and makes himself a giant mug of coffee. He sits down, then, very aware that he might not get to get up for quite some time. He considers checking his social media, but it makes him remember Max’s friend request – the one he still hasn’t accepted, now truly worrying about his balls if he ever meets Max again – and instead, he clicks on disconnect, making his internet connection die. At least he won’t get distracted.

When he doesn’t cringe after opening the folder with his work – survives looking at the first one, even -- he counts it as a success. From that point, it’s easier to focus on the pictures, easier to look at Paris again.

The first batch – fifty or so pictures -- are what Balthazar asked for, but as Dean goes through the rest of them, clicks from picture-before-Cas to picture-with-Cas, he notices how obvious it is that the photographs got way more personal and have a completely different atmosphere to them. They are somewhat dreamy; some of them in the good way, some of them in the Instagram way – would look better with a few filters.

Only a few of them will be usable for the article, Dean knows. 

Half of the pictures he took have Cas in them – Cas sitting near the Seine, Cas laughing, Cas walking down rue Mouffetard, Cas walking towards him at Place des Vosges. Cas suddenly closer to Dean than he’s been through all their conversations and video calls.

And then there’s the rest; the pictures Dean took of random people, as if copying Humans of New York only without the profound, silly-deep stories to them. But still; people whose gestures tell a story of their own; or their bewildered expression; or their sad eyes. Which sounds silly-deep enough to Dean.

Clicking through all the pictures frantically, not paying attention to detail, Dean finds himself panicking. This is not what Balthazar wanted; this is not the Paris that could interest someone, this is Paris from a very personal point of view, even though there’s no picture of Dean’s face whatsoever. But it’s so obvious, it shines so bright that every single picture he took after he met Cas is intended, seen from his point of view.

Dean has never let Balthazar down – this would be the first time. 

Trying to not think about that catastrophe, though, Dean stays in his spot – sits on his left leg, eventually, to make himself more comfortable – and goes through the pictures over and over again.

He notices something new about the ones he likes – whether they’re suitable for Balthazar’s taste or not. It’s not intentional, the composition and the light he used, but Dean calms himself down thinking that maybe _that_ is the best thing about this. That none of these pictures are trying too hard to impress, and yet they succeed. 

It takes Dean a few long, agonizing moments to realize what he wants to do; mostly because he knows it won’t be met with agreement, not at first at least.

It, however, fills him with excitement he hasn’t felt since Paris; the little droplets of happiness that settle in his lungs through the pictures, he becomes surprisingly certain about what he wants to do and why. 

He doesn’t tell Cas. Although, the truth is, Dean’s phone is lost in the sheets from when he checked the time right after waking up. He hasn’t looked at it since, and it feels good – feels better than hanging out with Sam a few days ago. Looking at Castiel’s relaxed, smiling face in the pictures is a way of keeping him near, and so his brain dismisses the idea of feeling guilty for not desiring contact in the moment. His mind is terribly content without having to deal with lust and emptiness at the same time. 

Dean quietly spends his day preparing what he needs to do, the constant clicking on his mouse the only companion to him. Friday is in a few hours – and that’s about the only thought keeping Dean somewhat restless.

 

It’s becoming a habit, Dean realizes when he wakes up way before the alarm has a chance to do it for him. He can’t even blame it on jet lag anymore; he can, however, blame it on his stomach that seems to be afloat on water, unsteady. He is strangely nervous, like a little kid before a big presentation.

His meeting with Balthazar isn’t until ten; and considering it’s barely half past seven, Dean has a lot of time to kill.

Originally, he turns on his laptop to see if Cas is online – and to confirm Max’s friend request. Before he logs in to Skype, he checks Facebook – and withdraws back into his tiny shell of denial when he sees he’s got one new message. From Max, of course – to be honest, he is not very surprised.

_Hey there,_

_Really wanted to tell you that you’re being a moron._

Which, Dean is sure, translates into a kick in the balls pretty nicely. It does feel more like a punch in the gut, though, and he wishes he had the words to express how sorry he is for the way he has been acting.

Last night has put everything back together and whatever had been fractured a few days ago is now fixed – it needed a Band-Aid, which came in the form of Dean’s pictures from Paris; the same ones he would have thought to be unnecessarily hurtful. They were not, however; if anything, they have made him come closer (and more importantly, to come to peace) with those two weeks.

This is fragile, though; he feels like the Band-Aid might still fall off, exposing an ugly wound, and that’s why Dean is at a loss for words.

 _Just give me a few hours_ repeats in his head on loop for a few seconds. Everything will change in a few hours, though; either making Dean feel worse or so much better. But whatever happens, he knows he will be able to log in to Skype and click a conversation window open and talk, and apologize. 

He can’t right now, but if Max – and so much more importantly Castiel just give him a few more hours, he promises himself he’ll make it right, somehow.

He proceeds to close his laptop quietly, getting up from the bed.

Without much hesitation, Dean ends up putting on his most pretentious clothes; as if hoping that looking professional will somehow help his situation. He slips into his black pants that he hasn’t worn in possibly over a year, puts on a plain white t-shirt that goes just over the button of his pants. He rummages through his closet for a while before he victoriously reemerges with a dark-green cardigan. When he puts it on, it’s a little tight on his shoulders, but Dean is positive it will give throughout the day. He puts on his watch, then, feeling it as it sits around his wrist, heavy.

He leaves the apartment, then, his USB drive tucked safely in his – awfully pretentious, too – bag. 

With his heart beating like a little bird’s, he knocks on the door of Balthazar’s office fifteen minutes to ten.

Balthazar smiles his typical grin when Dean enters the room, but Dean is barely able to smile back due to his nervousness – his eyebrow does go up, though, when Balthazar spreads his arms in a welcoming gesture. Dean is thankful his boss is too lazy to get up and actually initiate a hug that grandiose. 

“Dean, Dean. Missed seeing you face around here,” Balthazar muses as Dean crosses the room and drops onto the chair opposite Balthazar.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, his eyes dropping to the bag as he sinks his hand in it, trying for the USB drive.

Balthazar raises his eyebrow, but reaches forward anyway. “Okay, show me what your artistic eye caught in our city of love.” He says that with a wink, and Dean blushes involuntarily. Of course he knows; has probably talked to Sam or maybe read Dean’s mind. You never know with Balthazar.

Dean clears his throat. “Okay. Before I show you these,” he squeezes the USB drive in his fingers, hoping to not cover it in the sweat of his palms, “they’re not for the article. There’s a slight chance you might fire me now, but – okay.” He hands Balthazar -- who looks really confused, something between amused and angry – the drive and as his boss leans down to stick it in, Dean continues. “Basically, I thought I could do an exhibition, if you liked these and decided to help me a bit, talk to your gallery friends and stuff.”

Balthazar snorts, but doesn’t look away from the computer, his hands now on his mouse, clicking the pictures open. He squints a little when he gets to the file of the fifty or so pictures Dean thought were his best. “And all that because you ignored your job assignment and went on a photographing spree, am I getting that bit right?”

“I have a few pictures that could cover the article,” Dean says impatiently, trying to roll up the sleeves of his cardigan but failing miserably. It still grips his arms too tightly and the fabric gets stuck somewhere mid-forearms, not giving Dean a slight chance of pulling them the whole way up. He sighs in frustration but lets it go, leaning back in his chair instead, clasping his hands to try and stop them from trembling. “But I want to focus on this. If they’re good. If they would do. Would they?”

Balthazar tilts his head to the side and chews on his bottom lip. Dean can see his struggle – Balthazar looks like he wants to tell Dean off and send him to hell, but on the other hand, it doesn’t look like he’s disappointed by what he’s seeing on his unnecessarily wide computer screen.

Balthazar hums. “They’re good,” he admits almost unwillingly, with hesitation. His eyes finally jump up from the screen to find Dean’s. “They’re really good, actually. I can see why you like them, and they’re good material, but darling, I’m not helping you unless you give me those pictures for the article.”

Dean wants to tell him that that’s a dick move – but he knows that really, it is not, and that he needs help because Balthazar’s got contacts, and he knows that first and foremost, Balthazar needs to get his work done before he can help Dean out of the kindness of his heart. And so he grits his teeth and nods.

“Sure. I’ll get them to you sooner rather than later.”

Balthazar nods. They’re not always all business talk like this, and it’s almost scary; if it weren’t for Balthazar’s ‘darling’, Dean might think he’s in actual trouble. 

What Dean is is nervous – he’s never done something like this, never saw his own possible independence in this field, always liked following someone else’s instructions. Everything seems so open now, with Balthazar’s definitely not dismissive look on his face, with so many pictures he can go back to and work on. 

“So what exactly do you want me to do?” Balthazar acquires after another few minutes of silence that Dean recognizes as intentional torture for being irresponsible.

Dean has to bite back a smile, because this means the battle is over and he has won. He sits up, suddenly hyper, his eyes for sure wide in excitement, the sweat of his palms now rubbed into his pants. “I just – if you could tell Kim, or other gallery owner you know, about me. If you could get me a meeting with them – “

“I’ll call Kim,” Balthazar tells him, “And because I really like these, I’ll tell her she should really consider it.”

 

Dean decides to treat himself to a taxi ride back home, even though he knows it will cost him a fortune and is not necessary. 

As he slides into the backseat, he realizes that sweaty palms are not something one gets rid of easily – it is covering his hands again when he fishes out his phone. _It’s just a text_ , he tells himself. And so it is; but it is an important one. Possibly as important as getting Balthazar to accept the pictures was. The only thing left is hope that Dean’s luck hasn’t run out yet.

The text he sends Cas from the back of the taxi is short.

_Could we have a Skype date later today?_

Dean checks his watch. It’s barely past eleven, meaning that in Paris it’s… around three in the morning. 

Dean sighs, thinking he won’t get a reply for at least three more hours, when the phone chimes in his hand. 

Dean can see it’s Cas, which could only mean two things. One, Cas had a night out and only just went to bed, and then… two, he can’t sleep. Maybe Cas’ nights are as restless as Dean’s have been, and oh boy, does it sting to think Dean probably added to that by avoiding him for two, growing on three days now. He can just imagine Cas, rolling from one side to the other, the sheets too hot and sticking to Cas’ naked chest. He can just feel the restlessness of the night, the desperation that knocks at your door at four in the morning and doesn’t leave your side till late, late morning or noon.

Pushing that thought away, deciding to believe the former, Dean finally drags his finger across the screen to unlock the phone, and taps the text open.

_I should be online later. Around 2am your time._

Dean sighs, but texts back a smiley, as if that could make up for the past few days. It cannot; the lack of a response to that is proof enough. However, the fact Cas had thought him worthy of a quick reply makes Dean smile, and he has to cover his face with his hands to not reveal it in front of the driver’s questioning eyes.

 

Dean knows that having to wait until two in the morning is supposed to be punishment, and he’s almost sorry that it’s no problem at all. The blood is boiling and alive as it pumps through his veins, too excited to calm down and even think of laying his head down for at least a few minutes of rest.

Dean spends his day on the internet, looking up random things, clicking the hours away, one article after another (and somehow, he ends up educating himself on sloths, out of all animals, via a ten page long essay). At the back of his mind, though, he’s trying to think of something to say to Cas. He knows he’s been acting like a dick, but will he be able to say that; is apologizing as hard as it has always seemed with everyone, even though Castiel has never felt like everyone?

Before he can answer that for himself, the Skype icon turns red and a conversation window pops up in the bottom right corner of the screen. Dean’s eyes widen when he realizes it’s a few minutes till two. The sky behind his window has settled into darkness.

Dean’s heartbeat quickens almost instantly, but he clicks it open. As always, Castiel’s profile photo surprises Dean momentarily – as if he was taken aback by it, over and over again, not believing that those lips were once pressed against his. But then his eyes go down to the message.

_[1:03:14] Cas: Hello, Dean_

Dean feels personally offended and sort of hurt when Cas doesn’t bother with a smiley face, not even now – it makes him sound like he’s mad, and really, Dean shouldn’t be surprised; isn’t surprised, but his heart doesn’t seem to comprehend that. They barely talked in the past few days, after all, and that’s not what you do after a two romantic weeks in Paris and a promise of a long distance relationship. And so he grits his teeth.

_[1:03:57] dean w: hey, cas!  
[1:03:59] dean w: are you up for a video call?_

_[1:04:32] Cas: Sure, is everything ok?_

_[1:04:44] dean w: yeah, i just want to talk_

Without waiting for Cas to answer, Dean pushes the call button, with his gut squeezed. He hasn’t been this nervous and excited both at the same time since graduating high school, and those were some pretty messed up years.

It rings a few times, the sound alien, so different from actual phone calls, before Cas picks up.

Dean frowns. “Your webcam isn’t working,” he says, staring at the black screen, hoping, almost crossing his fingers that it’s only an accident; that Cas is not punishing him by turning his webcam off.

“Oh, sorry,” Castiel mutters and Dean relaxes just hearing his voice. “I forgot.” A few seconds later, Castiel’s blurry face appears on the screen and it immediately brings a smile to Dean’s face; the face that has been preparing itself for an ashamed expression, now stretched in a grin. “Can you hear me okay?” 

Dean nods. “Yeah. How about you?” 

“Yeah, everything is fine. I can hear you.”

They both fall silent after that, and Dean knows why – Castiel wants an apology. And he deserves it, too, because it’s Dean who abruptly stopped trying for a moment there – and that moment must have felt like a million years to Cas. 

“I’ve been a real dick to you,” Dean says, and it comes out of his mouth surprisingly easy, without having to squeeze it out through gritted teeth. Cas’ face seems to relax a bit, and Dean’s tensed muscles relax accordingly. Just breathe, he thinks, and it’ll be fine. “I guess I needed some time to figure out what I was feeling, and I should have told you, but I just felt –” _so vulnerable_ “I don’t know. I’m not used to feeling like this.”

“Like what?” Castiel asks, and this is the first time Dean realizes his eyes haven’t left the screen for a split second, searching for every emotion on Dean’s face, exploring it. Dean feels small and peculiar in his cardigan that he hasn’t taken off all day, white headphones in his ears, but it’s too late to change anything. There’s only one thing to do; give in to Castiel’s stare. 

“Like I want to live for this guy I met in Paris even though I’ve only known him a few weeks,” he murmurs, his fists clenched against his thighs as he tries his best to not look away.

Castiel laughs. “Yeah, that. That caused confusion on both sides.” Cas looks away, inspecting something on his desk, or perhaps just staring at his hands, or at his keyboard; just somewhere that isn’t Dean’s face. “But I was okay with it, and I thought you were, too.”

“I was. And then I wasn’t. The distance got to me,” Dean admits, staring at Castiel’s face intently now, unable to look away, “But now I’m good. I’ve missed you.”

Castiel’s eyes return to the screen; he squints at the blurry image of Dean’s face, and for a split second, Dean genuinely expects a rejection. _What do you think, that missing me makes it alright?_ He expects that, and Castiel’s hardened features don’t tell a different story, either. 

Dean’s jaw clenches, holding in a thousand unspoken words that he is not ready to say. He feels exhausted, feels like cancelling the call; barely managing to hold back a sigh.

The corners of his mouth go down before he sees Cas’ face change, after seconds and seconds of the same hardened expression. Despite the blurriness, it is apparent how much Cas’ face falls; but it’s still better than dismissal. 

“I’ve missed you, too,” Castiel lets slip out of his mouth quietly. “What do you want to do?”

Dean bites his lip. He knows he could go either way – he could call it off and tell Cas he’s not sure he can do it (because the doubt is there), or he could tell him that he would do anything to give this a real try; but truth be told, the decision has been made a relatively long time ago. Dean didn’t wake up this morning feeling fixed and bright and alive to end things. He felt like a beginning, or rather like a comma, with Cas being his middle and an ending, or the continuation of Dean’s sentence.

“I want you,” Dean says, for the first time glad they’re not face to face, because he might not have been able to say this in person. “And if a long-distance-relationship-you is all there is, I wanna do it.”

Castiel looks away again, making Dean wish he could cup his cheek in the palm of his hand and make him look back, up at Dean. 

“I could visit,” Dean suggests before Castiel opens his mouth, “I want to do an exhibition with my Paris photos,” he blurts out, even though he knows it’s got nothing to do with what they’re talking about – except it does, it’s the roots of this all, but Dean isn’t sure if he could ever express that. “There might not be all that much money, but maybe some. I could visit.”

Castiel’s eyes smile seconds before it spreads and gets to his lips. And when it does, it’s only a small smirk – but his eyes give him away. “Don’t ignore me like that again, Dean. Okay?”

Dean nods, knowing it must be in slow motion on Cas’ laptop. “No. No, I wouldn’t. I’m good. Are you?”

Castiel nods, and Dean feels a terrible ache spread across his body as all he wants to do is reach out and take Cas into his arms. 

“I’m good, Dean.” 

He wants to hold Cas and kiss him and be with him. He almost lunches forward to hug his laptop; maybe he could kid himself that it’s Cas he’s hugging.

Instead, he just smiles wide and bright, keeping his hands to himself, trying to calm down the outburst of combined emotions in his belly.

“Tell me about the exhibition,” Castiel speaks up, his voice fragile, as if still stepping on thin ice, before he clears his throat. “Am I in any of the pictures?” he adds jokingly, and Dean is terribly glad he can talk about that; if Cas didn’t prompt him, he would have probably gone on an embarrassingly sappy rant about how he’s glad they decided to give it one more chance, that _Cas_ decided to give Dean another chance. He would have probably uttered the world love somewhere in that speech.

 

They talk until the early morning hours – it’s almost four when Dean finally gets to his bed, and even now, he’s not all that exhausted. His body aches, but his mind is wide awake despite being forced to function for over twenty hours now.

It’s actually incredibly difficult for Dean to silence the happy butterflies in his stomach. His head is empty but for the image of Castiel’s blurry face on webcam; it used to be a disgrace, a mask for Castiel’s beautiful face once, but now it is a gift to cherish, now that Dean can’t actually trace his fingers along Cas’ jaw and feel the stubble beneath his fingertips. 

He smiles to himself, his cheek buried in the pillow.

He wouldn’t mind falling asleep like this every single evening – or better yet, with Castiel by his side, but that’s wishful thinking at the moment, and Dean has made his peace with that. Wishful thinking now can be reality later, if they try hard enough; they _cannot_ tweak time, however, and Dean is okay with this now.

He is more than okay; he got lucky, really, and he is aware.

He hums an unspecific melody to himself, possibly a song he heard once, weeks ago, and the tune got stuck in his head, in some kind of satisfaction. His breathing deepens; he’s seconds from falling asleep.

That’s when his phone vibrates on his nightstand. Dean can’t seem to ever remember that setting your phone on vibrate is louder than having the sound on; the noise is sharp, long, and wakes him up. 

He groans and considers not checking it until morning, but his conscience tells him it might be an emergency, so he rolls onto the other side and picks up his phone. He squints at the screen, too bright to his tired eyes, almost painful. 

It’s from Castiel.

_I know what I said back in Paris, but I just booked a ticket for the US. Honestly, I think I deserve better US memories, and I know you can help. You said you’ll visit – I thought I’d visit too if you’ll have me._

Dean sits up in his bed with an abrupt gasp, his fingers clutching the phone, his knuckles growing white. His heart picks up a furious beat, and all of a sudden, he’s wide awake again; feels like it’s Christmas morning and he’s five, eager to run down the stairs and unwrap his presents.

 _We can make it work_ , he thinks, as if surprised. Really – he’s not. He knew all along, but he seems to have needed this text, this exact text to prove it to him.

 _I’ll have you anytime_ he types quickly, his fingers running over the letters, messing up a few times even in those few short words. Maybe it’s a four am thing, but he grins to himself, actually happy to be crafting the sentence he adds. _What wouldn’t I do for the guy I love? My door is open, just give me a date and I’ll pick you up at the airport_

_With a bouquet of roses, I hope?_

_I don’t like roses. Maybe daffodils?_

_The things I’ll overlook for the guy I love…_

THE END.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Hope you enjoyed. :)
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://deanghostchester.tumblr.com/) if you don't want to comment on here. Don't forget to check mostly10's art [HERE](http://mostly10.com/post/103054637235/la-vie-en-rose-a-deancas-mini-bang-2014)!
> 
> Once again, thank you to everyone who helped, especially Max. ♥
> 
> See you next year, I guess!


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